Jeffrey Lang

The Chatterbox

Sitting, slouched, at the endless table,
She sips, and she sips,
Clearing her throat that forever speaks,
Wetting her tired lips.

As she begins her practiced jabber,
Chirping on and on,
Her melody rules the polluted air,
Silence—forever gone.

Preaching from her well worn chair,
She talks, and she talks,
Planting seeds in listeners’ souls,
They call her Chatterbox.

Reaper of sorrow, sower of hope,
Disciples flock, and flock in herds,
And in this coffee shop they live,
They live just for her words.

Oh! Oh! The stories she spins!
Words she binds, and binds
Into inspiring tales of moral life—
They say she’s a mastermind.

And truly she is,
As she talks, and she talks,
Planting seeds in listeners’ souls—
They call her Chatterbox.

But perchance, one day,
If the world turns gray,
And leaders balk, and balk,
Might the Chatterbox rise,
And turn loose her flocks,
Persuading goodness to stay?


Copyright © 2002-2011 Student Publishing Program (SPP). Poetry and prose © 2002-2011 by individual authors. Reprinted with permission.