the dining room table,
the one in the middle
of my small room.
I stood
there for a while,
listening
to the roarof the highway
just off the fringe.
Quiet,
too loud,
to the odd
dissonance of cars
meeting in the middle.
Is there
is anything better
than the
sweeping sounds of speed as pavement gets
wasted.
I can’t
hear it.
It winds
and woes,and spills.
They
sweep,
they
swoosh,they swindle.
I put my
keys on the
table.Hoping for the strange
silence.
Before
the birds
start
chirping.
No comments:
Post a Comment