HYPOTHESIZE if the gurgle in the heating system or the titter of the fridge when you are out were to find tongue if the tock of the wood as the house shrinks in the cool of evening translated to a particular message if as your head rests on the pillow the universal murmur of white noise were to take form and whisper words just for you if the harumph made by a cupboard drawer were followed by sarcastic comments on your morning appearance if every idea were accompanied by a bing! and a cartoon-style thought-bubble with light bulb that could be read like newsprint if the sizzle in your pan when you looked down was your own heart if the distant rumble of the ringroad were to become tighter every day if the slam of your door were to sever you forever from what was on the other side if the twitter of interference on the radio were to become louder than the music you are trying to tune or the hum at the back of thought were supposed to supersede the message if the judder of your engine stalling were to bring you to a stop as surely as your heart if the trill of the modem were to rise to an unlocatable tinnitis or if the hums of all the computers were to cease at the same moment if the trundle of the trolley that brings refreshments at 11.25 each morning were to cease if the boom of all wars were rolled into one that simultaneously deafened killed and enriched if the clap of thunder were applauding you or if the cough of your engine were to turn to consumption if the squelch of feet on the pavement stopped at your door if the whoosh of the toilet brought it all back up if the throb of a plane overhead were to engorge the sky or if the drone of a missile was programmed to enter your sitting room if the sum of all the noises were to cancel each other out or if the riff of silence did not break if the fizz of aspirin failed to reassure or if the tinkle of the spoon dissolved nothing if the trees were lifting up spokes of thought each of which might be breathed in if there were a substance that could release you from the hold of the present if time sends these shocks back then you would stand for a moment in the kitchen or garden or office unable to turn if when you do turn round everything is the same as it was |
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Copyright of this poem remains with the author. | ||||||||