Diversion
Most days my life makes
a good bit of noise. I bang
about, a symphony of pans
and slamming storm doors,
declarations and jokes,
brakes and cable news,
mostly crescendos, very
few rests, no tip-toeing
hushes, no period, no pause,
a comma at best, I swim
my long swim in my many
stimuli: the noise of hands
and tongue and eyes, always
and improvised, as big as
the spaces, as bright as
the light, a mighty kazoo
among mighty kazoos whose
music repels the non-sounds
of truth, the blank echoes
of stillness in great, empty
rooms, the eternal hard stop.
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