When I was small, I would crawl under tables.
Hidden in a utopia of polished MDF until
someone managed to coax me out again.
Hands over my ears, eyes closed, trying desperately to
block everything out.
There is something peaceful in places where sound is muffled.
Dampened, yet still present.
Standing in the toilet block in the village hall,
mirroring the dancing steps of my peers in
What I’m trying to say is that I’m here,
even if I’m quiet about it.
Quiet children become quiet adults who become
quiet old women sitting on porches.
Scoffing as two lovers kiss for the first time in an alley.
What do they know? We say, and laugh and laugh.
Throwing our heads back and offering
our teeth to the setting sun.
Watching the world change from our steel-framed paradise.
Not saying a word when someone comes out to join us.