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Only Ordinary Children

John T. Hitchner

We were children at play,
more than ordinary,
school books tucked under our arms
like chores to be done later,
perhaps even forgotten.

We listened to songs,
swayed to melodies,
and sang lyrics over and over.
That’s how it is for us, we said,
and vowed that’s how it would always be.

What is it about clocks and time
that makes you look beyond the person across the table
and see only yourself?
Where were you?
Where was I?

What stills conversation
more than one day and night,
more than numbers on the clock.
What makes cold silence ordinary as closing a book?
Perhaps we hear too many songs.
Perhaps we hear none at all.

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