Dry Gourd Words

The cafe hummed, then a shift in air.

A quick bright rhythm, over there.

Their voices, sharp and fast and low,

the tongue my grandmother used to know.

I tried to catch it, a phrase, a name.

But the words just rattled, just the same

as dry seeds in a gourd, no sense.

My own mouth felt foreign, tense.

They laughed, leaned in, their sentences clean.

I felt a space inside, unseen.

A hollow, where that sound should fit,

but only silence settled it.