These Are My JOTtings...

The Conversation

Around we croon a little tune
as on the phone we hear the tone.
It ends too soon by light of moon.

By winds of thought our conversation's blown.
Thy kin's quite worthy of our latest talk.
Nigh sends a word that greatest hope has grown.

We talk in jest as grow we corn on stalk.
We balk to answer honest needs made plain.
We rain upon parade in constant squawk.

To speak as a spoke in a wheel we would deign
to run over all in our word massive "car."
When we finish our party of jawing insane

We know little else but an hour of spar,
Now we're breathlessly glad and would hope that quite soon
Our word-fists would wake us, from laziness jar.

by Jay O'Toole
on September 26th, 2017