MIKE GOOD | There Is a Certain Quiet in Maine
“THERE IS A CERTAIN QUIET IN MAINE”
But here, something else. Listen to the cars outside
the bedroom, rolling through the stop sign. Like waves,
like the refrigerator’s seal. Like red blood cells,
turning blue and red, and blue
and black. I wish I were in Maine. I imagine
hearing Maine in the squeaking ceiling fan
that will continue turning long after I am gone.
I hear it at two a.m. when a woman walks past my window,
threatening to call the police
and then stops speaking. I hear it
in the landscapers’ motors buzzing even now.
A song stuck in my head. I hear waves crashing
like cars somewhere far away, and somewhere
I am atop that wave. I ride above it, along the sewer,
lines overflowing into rivers. I hear it as
the plants hear me typing even now.
I hear it in the brush of a dog’s tail on a carpet,
a pendulum swinging. I hear it in my dumb voice
saying nothing to the feet tapping above me. I also have been
in the car that sounds like a wave, grinding
over cans and broken glass, metallic jangle in wind,
brushing past windows, storefronts, where I’ll again be soon,
caught like Muybridge’s horses, floating in motion,
hearing hope glisten, in the suckling sound of a can
of beans opening, as I twist the wobbling faucet and drown.
Mike Good lives in Pittsburgh. Some of his recent poetry can be found in or are forthcoming at Bennington Review, december, Five Points, Ploughshares, Prolit, Terrain.org, Waxwing, and elsewhere, in addition to anthologies such as The Pittsburgh Neighborhood Guidebook (Belt Publishing). His work has received support from the Sewanee Writers' Conference and The Sun, and he holds an MFA from Hollins University. Find more at mikegoodwrites.wordpress.com.