MARY-JANE DUFFY
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Silence
Night exhales trees lit, cars wail.
Anyone will walk with their ears
plugged with what? Vulcanised
foam? Wires? The man
next to you on the train is warm
as a winter coat but you may
have to kill him. His ears ring
whoosh white noise. You make
the library. Today they are unveiling
a new television. Talking books
chatter in large print. Years ago
you wrote about the need
for a soundtrack – you mentioned
reggae, Schlager, Bizet, Sinatra.
You were young, delusional, your taste
of questionable quality. You wake
to the clink of ice in a glass. You should
have been more careful.
