This is right.
Dotted in a room with low-lit lamplight,
Some are talking but most are listening, fidgeting and insisting to learn.
Answering favors and savoring paid-fors,
One man's treasure is booty to share --
Peace of mind for a piece of a story.
Music glows and grows from the corner,
aureating speech and diffusing boredom.
The couch is like a gray gray grifter,
stockpiling lighters and change for a buck.
Laughter bright like eye contact shatters the low hum
(respectively not ho-hum)
of talking and shuffling,
ruffling the fuzzy who gives us her cuddly.
Fickle and sable, she drinks on the table (that's really much bigger than it looks).
Giggles and titters follow a sexist non sequitur
as wind blows in from a half-open well.
Guitars are a start -- voices the cream;
Singing with feeling and meaning to be more than just mimics.
Hearing some problems and helping to solve them with sovereign rationality.
We are of importance and occupy some worlds,
Even if they're just the heads of our friends.
We sit in circles.
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