Gosh, it’s quiet
only cars shushing past
and the flop of a dog toasting her other flank in a sun splat.
Get-things-clean machines stopped burping.
Heat-things-up-machines are chilly.
No clicks and rattles from keep-it-cool machines.
The voice in brain, though, is still shrill.
What are you going to do now?
Maybe I could dust the things in ancient piles,
or, even, put them away.
Perhaps I could mend that broken thing,
with a screwdriver and,
while the tools are out,
hang propped pictures.
I want to break the silence with pages’ rustling
but my shrill taskmaster just won’t let me.