quiet as a helicopter crash

force-fed commotion  

like they’re trying to make foie gras out of my eardrums

trying to get my thoughts in order 

a game of whack-a-mole 

only the moles are intrusive  

and the hammer is a shotgun

with its head sawed off 

they think I don’t listen

and they see my eyes wander

they don’t know I can smell fear

and I hear the tapping feet of the anxious

we’ll sashay across the room anyway

the floor is all eggshells

and half-chewed fingernails

out of protest, we’ll lie on our bellies

and make face-down snow angles 

sweep the mess 

into big piles

tell stories about 

mostly true events that never happened

volume at twelve 

and here comes the horn

of the lucky train

train thirteen 

where everyone sips opium tea

they sleep on the tracks

and dream about peace

and quiet