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| by Tom Barlow |
***
Phonophobia
A jet flies low overhead trailing a
shadow and I pause my pencil as
the sound lands, frantic and massive.
Please understand, such noises
are hands groping for my throat.
The neighbor with straight pipes
launching down the street at midnight,
wind chimes when the sky is bruised,
a cell phone pleading for devotion; all
gut punches. When the death metal band
rehearses across the alley, I know the devil
sits in, banging on the crash cymbal.
My whole world bleeds cacophony and
I am thin as a drum skin now; I hear
only commotion.
Help me please
but hush
I can love you
as long as you don't make a sound.
Labor Day
Sweat stains and blisters
aspirin and ice packs,
scars, a hitch when he walks /
her knees carry the pattern of
the kitchen floor / the cows won't
milk themselves / so who makes your
meal / who hangs your drywall / who
will carve your name in a headstone /
and these days the dying still depend
on them to ease their suffering /
we dine handsomely on the
muscle of laborers / stuff a few bucks
in their pockets and call ourselves
munificent / so easy to ignore the
pain of hard work, which, we are assured,
never killed anyone but look around /
given time, we grind them down so fine
the wind cannot help but blow them
away / while we blame them
when we sneeze.
***
Tom Barlow is a widely-published Ohio author of poetry and fiction. He writes because conversation requires a great deal of give and take and he's always considered himself more of a giver. See more at tombarlowauthor.com.
