The soft, silent humming of the dark grey box emanate
throughout the darkened room.

Tap it. Shake it. Stare it down. Nothing stops the humming,
or the silence. Bang your head against the wall, I don't care.
So long as you don't destroy what's left of the furniture.

And I will watch as you bang your head against the wall,
And I will watch as you masturbate your frustrations onto the floor,
And I will watch as the fog horns blow, sharp and loud,
With content nowhere to be found.

And I will watch the hawk on the wind, dying and falling,
Caught on one last breath, brain cells flaking away
like skin as we remember little of what has ever happened.

(c) April, 1997, Steven H. Lee

This poem is also posted in The Writer's Corner at Epinions.com.