The Auditory Imagination
At three, the quiet voice
Sounded warm like Pooh:
So fun! Squirming in toys,
He’d squeal back: “So are you!”
Always his plump choice
For it to come and go too.
At twelve, it was a floating gaze
Combined with disembodied sound.
Now further schooled in time and space,
It could be sad but more profound.
Someday you’ll look back on this place
Like some lost and sacred ground.
Four years later, it sharply magnified
All the things he’d come to loathe
In what the bathroom mirror would confide
About his skin, build, hair, and clothes.
Sorry, buddy, but Clearasil won’t hide
That clownish tumor on your nose.
When his first chance came to sow wild oats
It became a less than helpful source
Of Quaker coaching, awkward and morose:
This is called passion. Sexual intercourse.
Keep up the rhythm, son, while I take notes.
Look in her eyes? Perhaps a bit more force?
A psych major, he spent most of his time
Learning to train it in an ivory tower.
Writing their thesis, both were in their prime:
Maybe the Freudians were right, but our
Teamwork is crucial. Don’t forget that I’m
Your deepest thought raised to its highest power.
Now divorce, AA, and bankruptcy
Have spawned a harsher sound for him to hear.
His counselor said that only ECT
Will work to moderate his inner ear.
It’s a banshee shriek, both caged and free.
Its dialogue cannot be printed here.
If you have
any thoughts on this poem, Chad Trevitte would be
pleased to hear them.