Sometimes there is nothing

Sometimes there is nothing

The silence is grotesque

Even the shadows speak in tongues.

I can hear them whispering

In corners

Lighting broken cigarettes

One after the other

As if they were pubescent teens

Hiding in toilet blocks

Trying to escape detention.

The sound of a desk drawer

The squeak of a chair

In the flat upstairs,

As the man drags a body across the floor.

He looks so defenceless

With his comb-over

And tanktop

A serial killer

If ever I heard one

He is always so quiet

Keeping himself to himself.

The sound of a tap dripping

Drip…drip

Tightened until it all but stops.

Water trickling down the drain

Listening out for the silent alarm.

Waiting for the 10.45

To rumble over the viaduct

The startle of Pipistrelles

Taking flight

The moon yawns high in the sky

There is a sigh of endless grief

In the dying of the day.

I can hear its lament

In the turn of a key,

An old car

Struggling to start,

Gasping for breath

As near collapse as the house on the hill

Which always sounds ready to capitulate.

Apologising for its appearance

Past its prime

Ready to fall,

A grave already dug

Empty and hungry.

The digger is in the garden

Wheezing

As it idles

Smoking a last cigarette

I can hear the rattle

From here.