The Language of Lament

All these new sounds are scary.
Yesterday’s case numbers read like the weather, 
the slow thwick as we sink into the jam jar of despair.

Sounds of the unspeakable unknown.

We’ve learned a new language. 
Octaves lower than it once was.
How are you, now followed by holding up?
I’m OK, now qualified, considering.
My internet provider signs off be well as I negotiate a lower rate during my exile.

But birds chirp loudly by my window and
rain falls fat against the ground
while I play street noise tracks on Spotify just to hear it again. *

Everything is so quiet now. 
My keyboard tip toes endlessly. 
The floorboards measure my weight. 
The buzz of my phone balloons the little red dots of the world.

But I do not hear real street noise,
or the sound of forks tickling plates or of cups dripping laughter. 
And children do not hear the yawn of the garage door saying, she’s home.
And elevators do not hear the mumbled morning‘s of janitors and accountants.

Soon-to-be lovers do not hear the hostess lie, “15-20 minutes”.
Used-to-be lovers only hear the sucking silence of a presence misplaced.

What words do I most want back? 
come on in, or
I’m sorry, or
I’ve missed you.
And look how the magnolias bloom!
And this is a brooklyn-bound L train, stand clear of the closing doors.

What words do you most want,
And how will you sing to the world in solitude, 
be well be well be well

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