Reading as a Child


Where can I find quiet?

My thoughts scatter at sounds

knocking, knock-knocking.

Inside the panelled cave dwells parents’ silent attire.

I enter and turn, facing out.

Calm cottons, serene silks, peaceful polyesters

drape behind me like ghosts from the past.

I roll the hollow door shut, pressing in the peace.

As I lower myself to sit,

I fall through layers of shoe funk

hovering two feet thick.

Unfortunately, the quiet awakens Tinnitus,

who is usually hidden laced within the racket.

Finally secure, I concentrate my quilted mind under a dim bulb

and over words barely reflecting into peepholes.

Comprehension is vital

dad wears out his tongue,

as Mom sits hooked,

weaving twisted worries

that I pattern.