Deaf Night at O'Donnell's

I happen in

from another unremarkable

Tuesday in the realm

of gratuitous sound, but here,

I can hear again

the quiet voices of the ontological,

the clink of ice cubes

in uplifted glasses,

the scrape of chairs,

the mournful lowing of floorboards,

the long history of blood

retold in my ears.

I scuffle to the bar, thoughts

drowned

by my suddenly thunderous

presence in this world,

and the silence flowing

from the neon jukebox,

the silence going down

smooth as the shot

of loneliness that would

naturally follow

a Billie Holiday song

if one were playing—

—while everywhere hands

are fluttering like sheets

in winds of gossip,

hollering above last call

for one more round.