There was never silence in our house.
Voices hammered over coffee as morning
yanked me from my bed in a language
I barely understood, an edge I knew too
well. They loathed cold, resented rain, took
heat as personal insult, hated getting old,
being ill, with their backs aching and teeth
a perpetual misery. On Saturdays, opera
blaring from the radio a friend had helped
pick out, the one with “a very good tone,
don’t you think?” When the music paused:
“Wonderful, wonderful! Don’t you think so?
Which aria, which singer did you like best?”
Ranking it all until sleep swallowed every sound.
you have any comments on this poem, Steve Klepetar
would be pleased to hear from you.