Patience communes are hotel ballrooms
Hot, grit coffee is the summer rain
That former farmhouse dreams
Filled with bedrooms and cultivation
Our culture is spill invisible carpet
Silver ice water carafes
Polite applause
And the impulse to walk the town
Rather than stay and listen and
Let our legs fall asleep crossed
But our age is wisdom
And to stay
Is no longer a pejorative purgatory
Heaven won't come
And by hell we won't go
And with our ears and our eyes
Our noses will learn to trust
That the microphone is not an invasion
Rather the amplification of our dream
To forget the certainties
That built our every shame
Roman Ryan 