Sometimes, just like that,
no purpose, no excuses,
not even a clearing of the throat.
They just settle, and insist on being written.
No point--except the blankness of the night.
No value--except the nagging of the void.
And they lodge--
like her words, like that word,
like stuffed animals in tree branches.
Everybody is Pocahontas but me--
I clean chimneys,
I wait on the corner, expecting the rain.
Like that, just like that,
just like the words you never said because he's too young.
Meaningless, yet insistent.