Turning It Off

It was the sort of end of the kind of day
When it was hot and sticky that the fabric of your skirt
Stuck hard to the backs of your bare thighs
Every time you stood up from your chair
Or the seat of your sun-baked car.

It was one of those noisy days, not just the sounds
Of the phone and the dings of new messages
Coming from every source imaginable
But the roar of roadblocks everywhere I turned,
The ceaseless screech of demands and clingy requests
Popping up like late summer thunderstorms.

So much noise.

I stepped inside the bar to find that at least
The interior was cool, although, as the crowd grew
And people pressed against each other to get their drinks
I felt the sweat drip down the crevice
Between my breasts, and
I grabbed my cocktail and stepped as far to the edge
As I could manage.
Everyone was talking, rattling small talk, peppering questions,
Shrill bursts of laughter, hollow laughs really, and
Soon all I could hear was noise.

White noise, they call it, just background sounds that blend
Together to form a wall, where distinct
Words and notes
Are lost.

So much noise.

But then you wove through the crowd
And fixed your eyes to mine
And amazingly I could hear your voice so clearly
And found myself focusing on every word
That the blare of the crowd,
The clanging bottles and glasses
The babbling baseball announcers on the screen
And even the acrid roar of the world inside my head
Was suddenly tuned to a lower setting.

I felt at peace at last, no longer distracted,
No longer bristling at the thought of straining
To make out the message
In the noise.
You reached in and turned off the noise.