The Sound

As she moves somewhat
unconsciously
on her side of the bed. Under
the covers. Mouth open,
letting out the stale, noxious air
of a few years. A few bad memories.
Gotta do that every now and then...

My God,
it’s the only thing in the room.

Here we are. The ivy uncoils
from its winter fist
and seems to reach for us. Silently touches
the windows like long widow’s fingers.
There is no wind tonight. Not even
night birds. Or action
in the apartments above or below.
It really is quiet here. Quiet
like I don’t remember.
Not even traffic. Not even a
clock’s tick. Or the radiator clank. That’s
been long since turned off.
The boilers and machinery that bravely
keep us alive. Not even the sand
of dreams shifting in its bowl.
Or a dog’s collar shaking, or a banana
ripening to black. Not even that.
Not even the photos as they mutter
in their albums, or the dead as they mutter
in their graves. But
just now, the faded sound of her breathing
as she settles in, finally, to some peaceful
form of sleep. And I am alone, sitting
up in bed like a man in a hospital
waiting for the nurse to bring
breakfast at 6 AM.