The Sound: A poem
A mourning dove, perched on the top of the chimney, his
cooing echoing down the hearth.
Scratching in a wall (mice?), since it fades you’re not too
concerned.
Furnace kicking on, the ultimate in comfort sounds.
Thunder, a memory of welcome summer rain.
A dull, muffled thud, what’s
that?, then nothing.
Trucks driving by, not on your street, but nearby. Noise
pollution.
And then, THEN
Breaking glass.
Loud.
Unmistakable.
It’s the patio door, which is an old French-paned door.
Easy-to-break glass. All at once, you think of that scene from a popular cult
classic when the break-in happens.
Is that happening here?
You wonder.
Footsteps, now. You’re breathing quickly, shallowly.
Panting.
You can’t move; a paralysis has set in. Awareness of this
makes you panic even more.
There’s someone in the house, that much is certain.
You see him, standing in the doorway.
That paralysis from earlier has turned your throat dry, and
you are unable to do anything but stare.
Mercifully, after seeing you
He runs out.
But not before breaking a few more panes, maybe in anger, on
his way out
The relief you feel is overwhelming
Glass on the floor?
A door to fix?
Yesterday this would have depressed you, thinking of the
cost and the headache.
Today, you laugh with relief.
He’s gone, you’re safe!
And then, after that brief bit of euphoria when you realize
you’re alone again
And contemplate what just happened
Are you really safe?
Not yet
And
Not anymore.
