November 4: Quiet

I try to find the quiet.
Soft rubber plugs my ears.
The phone between my legs
pumps Chopin’s Étude
Opus 25 Number 12 in C minor
into my head. Chopin,
drown out the T.V.

It’s a competition between Planet of the Apes
and the Étude. The monkey’s roar
overpowers the climbing arpeggios. I practice
concentration,
                          focus,
                                      tune out the people.
I ask why the little girl is silent.
The answer, she has reverted
to a primitive state. I wonder

what music would sound like without words
to define the key. Thoughts would become images
without words. Words could not repeat
in circles around the black stage
of my thoughts, mocking my inattention. Instead
a silent film of fingers would sprawl up and down
the keys, erupting in tension
until the fingers resolve
on the final chord.

Though I leave the room, the words
on the T.V., finally a low muffle.
The washing machine door unlocks,
click click. The dishwasher goes swish.
The dog’s nails click clack on the floor.
I wear out Maurizio Pollini’s fingers with
Opus 25 Number 12 on repeat
until I can anticipate every chord
that anchors those tiring runs again
again the wave of arpeggio crests
and falls over and over and I try
to think in silence-to peel the sticker
of quiet and adhere it to the etude. It plays
so vigorous in my ears until
I no longer feel the cord connecting
my ears to the phone. Chopin
above the T.V., the appliances.
That song will not be silenced.
The final beats mock
up            up          up
     down     down      down
though no resolution is heard.