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sledding

Silent Stuff

I asked the old pot
if it had in its cast iron
any memory of the beans
and the stews
made in it over the years.

It just sat there, mocking me,
not saying a word.

Likewise, the saxophone
had nothing to say
about the nice phrases,
even the clams,
blown through it over the years.

(So I honked on it
a couple times and said
see ya' later.)

Maybe the bass guitar
would have a recollection
in its wood
and circuits
of bar dates,
rock-n-roll,
or the smell of cigarettes
and stale beer.

Not a word.

(I didn't have the gumption
to funk it up,
even for a minute.)

I went outside and talked to my bike
about the trails we’ve ridden,
the daily commute,
my weight on its frame.

Nothing. A steely silence.

(Maybe I'll take it for a ride tomorrow)

Even my books,
with their notes in the margin,
their coffee stains,
refused to speak.

(I left my glasses
on the piano.)

I asked the piano
if in its keys and hammers
was any trace of the tunes played on it,
the childrens’ banging,
or the random notes
the cat made walking across it keys.

Its silence was deafening.

So I hit a Bartok chord,
cut a fart,
and left.
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Comments

Silent

...but deadly.

Re: Silent

Nice!
sledding

February 2018

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