Silent Music

Lonesome harmonica
sits noiselessly on my desk.

Lonely guitar unplucked
next to it on a mute stand,

rubber bands knotted together
to keep it upright and silent in place

as I am silent for once
thinking of unborn children.

This entire house will remain silent
until I do something to relieve it.

I feel like
I ought to do something

but can’t think of a thing to do
that doesn’t involve

music and kids’ laughter. Their innocence,
so I’m told, will shine through;

well, I wasn’t that innocent, ever.
My ghost children will never be either —

no one is, I think. I sit here guilty as hell
of something,

with silent musical instruments
muted up,

waiting to be played;
they will wait a long time.

A child’s laughter will forever
be missing. Harp and guitar

will forever do nothing without
me to fill this void.

As for me, sitting here in the quiet,
I’m missing too.

No one’s looking for me.
No one is listening.

Any stories I could tell
have already been aired,

any songs I could play
don’t make a sound worth hearing,

and any rate kids would not understand
a single word of each.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T