I have often been accused of talking too much to strangers.
Or as someone recently put it,
* "Everytime I turn around, you're talking to some new weird featherplucker."
While this poem seems to be going opposite my direction, by speaking to few if any
along its mosey way, it could easily find itself going my way, up on the freeway
of imediate and immersive conversation, if as seatmate it dared to catch my eye
or if as waitress, it braved a friendly smile. Strangers no more, atttentive
I would listen as it unpacked.
Follow the linked title to the poem and an interview with Billy Collins
Billy Collins
At the hotel coffee shop that morning, the waitress was wearing a pink uniform with “Florence” written in script over her heart.
And the man who checked my bag had a nameplate that said “Ben.” Behind him was a long row of royal palms.
On the plane, two women poured drinks from a cart they rolled down the aisle—“Debbie” and “Lynn” according to their winged tags.
And such was my company as I arced from coast to coast, and so I seldom spoke, and then only of the coffee, the bag, the tiny bottles of vodka.
I said little more than “Thank you” and “Can you take this from me, please?” Yet I began to sense that all of them were ready to open up, to get to know me better, perhaps begin a friendship.
Florence looked irritated as she shuffled from table to table, but was she just hiding her need to know about my early years—the ball I would toss and catch in my hands the times I hid behind my mother’s dress?
And was I so wrong in seeing in Ben’s eyes a glimmer of interest in my theories and habits—my view of the Enlightenment, my love of cards, the hours I tended to keep?
And what about Debbie and Lynn? Did they not look eager to ask about my writing process, my way of composing in the morning by a window, which I would have admitted if they had just had the courage to ask.
And strangely enough—I would have continued as they stopped pouring drinks and the other passengers turned to listen— the only emotion I ever feel, Debbie and Lynn, is what the beaver must feel, as he bears each stick to his hidden construction, which creates the tranquil pond and gives the mallards somewhere to paddle, the pair of swans a place to conceal their young.
* For the record: outside the froyo place, @the time my spontaneous friendships with 'weird featherpluckers' was called into question, it was Bubba who spoke first, to me and everyone else on the patio. He wanted all of us to know that he found his chosen flavor like eating frozen sour cream. He knew it might seem odd, but would we care for a bite to see for ourselves? I politely declined but it was good old fashioned manners that went on to obligate me to quip that they need a burrito flavor to match. While I might conceded to being amiable, at times downright chatty- I could never bring myself to use such fowl language as 'featherpluckers'. While I can give no good defence as to why such exchanges frequently find me, I'm certainly glad they do.
