PREFACE: This poem is a part of a longer work: "The Slilence," which will never be finished because it is impossible to define the undefinable sound of no sound.

"The Void Left Is..."

The morning is adjar, close the shades
with a click, lock the car
and send the kids to school.
The sizzle of sausage on the cast iron griddle
bubbles and steams at the silence of sleep,
the quiet and still of the empty street.
There's me, there I am, window watching
and TV shopping for rhinestone rings
at six thirty in the morning,
coffee forcing sleep from me.
I read the news without seeing,
drink orange juice without thinking,
think about leaving
dream about dreaming
speak without seeming
leak without peeing
full without feeling.
There's the sound of my footfall,
the sock on carpet crunch:
'Here I am, I am here.'
But the street is still empty
the sleet is still falling
the kids are still sleeping
the sky is still heaving
the rooms are all muted
the walls are still standing
the land is expanding
the silence is retracting,
but the void left is...
the void left is...