POETRY

You Won’t Find Quiet

Photo by Mohamed Almari on Pexels.com

“You won’t find quiet in this city,”

he said,

in a hyperbolic rhythm

that broke and spun:

“I used to live on Charles St.”

An egocentric maker and shaker,

bruised by stilted chatter,

the winningest winner

of the solipsist’s game,

whose blanket of scruffy hair

covered eyes that darted round

like the shape of a box,

as my tired face longed

for the other side of the room,

near the retro telephone

that kept ringing and ringing

before going unanswered.

And the woman by the wall,

blonde and plagued by the clamor

outside —

construction sites rattling,

sirens engulfing the street —

stared outside the long,

narrow window,

probably wondering if he was the one,

and if the noise would ever stop.