when i was a kid
i would sit outside
on a big rock
and watch for my father
to come home after
a long day at work
i knew the sound
of the rusted exhaust
on the old green hornet
sitting peacefully
listening for the
rumble of his approach

i talk a lot
likely too much
but i have been adapted
to long periods
where i will not speak
for days and days
until the sound of
my own voice becomes
foreign to my ears
a constant struggle
wanting to communicate
yet having lost the
ability to speak

long afternoons
waiting for the sound
of a loved one approaching
afraid to speak
now just a tumor
a malignancy of silence
a fungus growing in sage
longing to have someone
coming home to talk to
when all i have is
the planes overhead
and an over abundance
of words to misuse