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Just now ten at night
and I can sit,
drink a beer
while the dishes soak.
The children listen
in bed to radios
and books on disc,
the noise floating down
like mechanical whispers.
The stop sign
at the end of the street
has been removed,
deemed
unnecessary by the city,
so cars stream by,
like a constant
Dali river
our house is
tucked under.
This is as quiet
as it gets.
I want tv then! I want noise
and lights that live in one box,
where the fighting is a focus.
Where the bout is
already over and rerunning
in my tired shoulders,
in my aching arches.
But instead,
I write something
small.
And the cars quiet
and the clocks chorus
the radio whispers
and in between stanzas,
my beer is so cold.
