If Silence Were a Companion
(Of Vanity and Silence)
If I listen completely,
all at once, the room is full. The sound of
dishes and silverware coming together
in the kitchen sink and people talking, cupboards
slamming and shuffling feet. If I could better
concentrate I could write a
better poem in this —
If I could accept the busy coffeeshop I could
always write a better poem. If I believed that it was okay
for the muse to speak to me now that solitude is not what I have,
if that lofty notion were not and as
meant for those preoccupied with visions of themselves
toiling at a mission supposed to be greater than what, themselves and
the majesty of the act. If I could let it go and trust
and that I could trust what it said
that my lofty need of control over so much I cannot, I could
write a poem that was just as good now as it’d be when I am alone
when silence is my companion.
If silence were a companion,
well, if silence were a companion
then wouldn’t I still
even when —
