I Hear

a banjo and the squealing of tires,

a woman's voice, a man's, canned laughter,

a cheap horn-section soundtrack and the squealing of tires,

and canned laughter;

I hear Lisa ask Grandpa to help her find Bart,

the squealing of tires and canned laughter,

my wife talking about a hysterectomy,

an eighties band singing, "I'm walking on sunshine,"

a random high-pitched tone I can't locate; I hear

the percussive note announcing another damned pop-up,

the creak of my rocking chair,

the sporadic chatter of my hard drive,

the squealing of tires;

I hear my wife laugh and say, "Right,"

the whir of the ceiling fan,

"It's nice to talk to you" and "Bye-bye";

I hear canned laughter and the squealing of tires,

the sporadic tick of the ceiling fan chain against the chassis,

the slide and scrape of pencil lead across this paper,

and my own breathing.

Michael Cody / PO Box 70279 / ETSU / Johnson City, TN 37614 / 423.439.6676 / codym@etsu.edu