Poem By Hugh Cobb
Tangents explode in all directions.
a disarray of pick-up sticks,
defining angles or relationships,
they touch without penetrating boundaries -
someone you meet at a party
nod to, and move on.
Tangents aren't intimate; can't commit.
Glancing off many circles,
they dwell on the periphery of emotion.
Always on the outside looking in...
Are tangents lonely?
Are they aware enough to notice?
What do they do when a party's over?
They never clean up the mess.
Fake kissing air beside your cheek,
they melt away like phantoms,
as if you'd only imagined
their thin laughter, their narrow ties.