Silence

I once planned a room for pure silencethe walls two feet thickwhere I could listen to the Quartetsor just the loose notes floating by.

But I never minded the soundof Stanley's cornetmixed as it waswith the sound of the windand the shrieks of small birdsblown about over the water.

He, Stan, who stood on his front porchfacing the riverand blasted away at the black locustsliving there.

He—Stan—who borrowed my rowboatto get a little exercise before he diedjust after his displacement and heart attackand just before Flo's breakdown and suicide.

For he was a D. P. American style,his retirement stolen one day,the owner in a cloud somewhereand twenty-six years of work—steel for Yankee Stadium and Verrazano Bridge—gone overnight,

his '53 Dodge truck in the backyardwith its hood upjust like his gold-laden mouth stood open in disbelief,the grass growing up foot by foot in the dirt around him

for which I added two coats of green wall paintwhose purpose it was to create another layerof foolproof sound interventionto keep the grief out.