Psychology of Silent Letters in a Foreign Café© by Lisa Jeffery
In a loud coffee shop, I created my dictionary of silent letters.
Crouching beneath muffled conversations of gossip about weekend soirees,
my silent letters, like private benefactors, donated to the words, sophisticated them,
brought a sense of mystery, a French-ness, a Latin-ness to dull, milquetoast English.
Silent letters, like lacy French underwear, are not meant to be paraded.
Silent letters are spies, Greeks at Troy, Trojan Horses to foreign students.
Silent letters parachute into words like Green Beret Lieutenant Colonels.
I laughed. People talked. I reminisced of saucy dialogues with my colleagues.
I devoured my salmon sandwich and asked for the receipt, which I knew
would put me in debt either on my mortgage, or my next island rendezvous.
White as a ghost, I remained calm. I unfastened my handbag with my thumb,
tensed my muscles as I often do when I’ve realized I’ve done something dumb.
I placed my handkerchief in my palm and wiped the sweat off my balmy forehead.
Damn, I thought. I had only brought - foreign currency. Oh, so apropos.
Can you find the silent letters it this poem?
©Lisa Jeffery, 2010
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