Plane over the house sounds
like feedback from a hot mic,
or wounded body in bed.
People descend to earth.
Their things descend with them.
At home, finally, the kitchen waits:
In the corner, coffee, quiet,
its maker the noise drain in a tub,
cleared throat before speech.
I have several friends who’ve lately…
“I have no words,” I write each time,
not having to say anything physically,
fecklessly, accompanied by
multiple ums in erratic rhythm.