Barrage

By Scott Wiggerman

To wrap the silence like a lover’s arms

around my own. To relish quiet hours

alone. The mind allowed to wind and worm

without detritus of dogs barking, cars

discharging, music blatting—free to roam

among the reveries and thoughts which seed

haphazard images and lines, a poem

if lucky. To think, a certain stillness needs

to be obliged, and that leaves out the noise

congesting my attention, your prattle.

I’m stopped: traffic’s jammed. Your incessant voice

is talk as torture, jabbering chatter.

I crave a stretch of calm, a quiet place,

to press the mute on a remote post-haste.