Whispers and Smile, 2 by Brian Rihlmann

Whispers


it’s the whispers
that are really worse
and more subtly vicious
in the long run

our old tapes run in the background
staticky and overplayed
soft echoes of ridicule
of shame and fear

we float in this sound
like an ocean of amniotic fluid

we’re swaddled
by layers of messages
like warm blankets
like straitjackets

there’s a homeless guy
who wanders into the coffee shop sometimes
early in the morning
he sits in the corner
whispering, mumbling

if he started screaming
they’d throw him out, but no—
he just mutters softly to himself

as I ignore him with one ear
and listen with the other

some days I put ear plugs in
that takes care of him
at least

Smile


on the wall behind the counter of the
corner store is a sign, a photo of a model
employee. red arrows point to the important
things—the proper shirt, with corporate logo.
name tag. hat. smile.  the poor girl filling
vats of coffee at 4:30 a.m., who’s been
stuck here since 11 p.m. yesterday, who’s
dealt with the obnoxious drunks, the mad
homeless, and the just plain rude mass
of humanity, a parade of horrible faces and
souls all night long, has her shirt, her name tag,
her hat.  but she ain’t smiling.  and if she was,
I’d assume she’d gone mad herself, and make a
phone call.  but really, why do they hang
a sign like that in public view? you just know
some asshole will see that, point to it, and say—
“hey!  where’s your smile?” whoever he is,
he oughta be killed.

Brian Rihlmann was born in New Jersey and currently resides in Reno, Nevada. He writes free verse poetry, and has been published in The Blue Nib, The American Journal of Poetry, Cajun Mutt Press, The Rye Whiskey Review, and others. His first poetry collection, “Ordinary Trauma,” (2019) was published by Alien Buddha Press.