A boiling kettle hissing, whistling buried beneath metal floors.
Jet planes landing struggling against cross-winds; struggling against turnaround times and fines.
The torture of so much quiet noise; but never screaming all at once.
The drawing of curtains over and over again, finger nails tapping Morse gibberish on slices of plant and earth.
Hammer and hate arpeggiate and syncopate generate a rate of rhythm.
Ringing, the voice diminishes repeats and finishes clues to a puzzle giving us everything and leaving us with nothing. Offers satisfaction for metal beckons.
Once in a while another world comes straight past us facing where we’ve been, knowing where we’re going.
There’s a fan, whirring but no breeze.
When frame fades my face appears straight mouthed near looking through geek pork pies.
Nothing remains but wire, bag, flask and box and yours truly.
One of four, the other three stare with glee, happiness sewn into the fabric of their existence:
Grey frogs from a distance arms raised with salute or outstretched with resistence. one hundred names from two tribes; those extrovert those introvert.
The static march home goes on and on but not forever and never alone.