their physical types, their violations.
They turn away, as they must.
He hears the laughter but never the joke.
He sees them writing -
they yawn and stretch -
then hears an accidental silence
when each, for his own reason,
does not speak.
He hears the explosions in their stories.
They listen, bent forward to miss nothing.
He knows it must be sex or violence
but can't prove it.
He hears them watch him with falling
hushing buffered conversation.
When they leave they drop their paper
here and there like bad excuses.