Covered in tattoos, they leave their little two seater
booth behind, gravel-voices the only thing trailing.
One Bloody Mary is hardly touched, proof it was free.
It was one of those times where conversationalists
enter a quiet space and change it with noise.
But just for a time. Soon they walk out of us silents’
lives and they join the rest of the madding crowd.
The collection of booths is let back into a soft space
of relative hum. Some music and talk does leak from
an adjacent room. We build walls against it.
I live in both worlds, truly, and each can be exhausting.
In a way they are the same. You see, when all in silence,
with really nothing sounding,
(have you been there?) the voices–
the thoughts in your head, they can be deafening.