I long for the quiet of a beach town in November. The regulars
in the bait shop don’t need to say a thing.
Not a chilly silence, but warm as the pot-bellied stove.
A confident quiet, as if they’re certain of something.
I used to fear the anger when no one spoke. Now I know
about hand-knit wool cap quiet. Don’t want to tell you
this news quiet. And nobody’d better bring up
last weekend quiet. Out on the pier,
wind wails. Waves tear at pilings and one
fisherman’s boombox drowns out the croakers
another one caught. Inside, Gina keeps the coffee hot
just the same for all of them. The seagulls
don’t ever shut up, won’t agree to leave it be,
competing for attention. Gina has names for a few.
Like Gimme, who sits on the ice machine outside.
Cocks an eye at her like his mug is empty. I long
for the quiet of a beach town in November, without
the lonely bartender who wants to hear about the book
I’m reading. It’s a memoir of a season spent in a hermitage
and how the silence grew miraculous, not just the blood
in her ears but the stretching of her soul became audible,
a music she never wanted to lose. “Music,” he says,
turning on the TV. “There’s those awards on tonight.”
I mark my page, pay up and walk out
into November. Not a sound from the gulls.