The Fridge Again
June 30 2008


When the fridge shuts-off
the sudden quiet startles me;
as if this silence occupied space,
had weight
and substance.

And then my ears prick-up, picking-up sound.
The wind, rustling.
Birds, disputing real estate.
And the trills of mysterious bugs.
The neighbour’s dog is chasing squirrels again
— manic barking
and the rodents scolding back,
safe from attack in the tree-tops.

Inside
my chair grates on the old pine floor.
And a tap
drips
like Chinese water torture.
Now I hear my pen, making chicken-scratch on plain white paper.
And later, the keyboard clacking,
like an army of frantic mice.

I miss the tap of footsteps
overhead.
I miss the creak in the stairs.
I miss her voice
girlish,
more like laughter than words.
And I miss the sound of the door
as the latch clicks shut,
coming
...going
...closed.

The fridge again,
that reassuring noise
— flattening the sounds that tempt me out of my head;
filling-in the voids.