Babbler Poem by colin pring

Rabbiting intractably
something about her mother’s incessant conflagrations,
her voice drifted forcefully about my ears did drum,
I spun to look.
Slight of figure,55 at most,
gaunt cheeks and sunken eyes rolling,
sat she 3 rows back.
With protesting finger vehemently
denounced construction workers’ activities.
‘Late again! ’ I suppose.
Pared with the bus,
the unrelenting self-absorbed argument
proceeded at consistent rate.
Grating on, she grimaced and frowned malevolently
as though her mother’s ghost whirled
about her every thought.
Onlookers, fearful for undesired interaction,
occasionally ensnared through idiotic curiosity,
regretting their stupidity
for the grip of unrelenting bable.
I too, almost entangled, eluded full eye contact,
not so much by skill but rather by saving grace.