Noise

It’s like static noise.

Someone turned on an old radio and left it.

It sits under the stairs.

Occasionally it blares out a public disservice announcement.

It never dies.

Or runs out of power.

It can only be turned down

By the grace of a good friend,

Or a person who cares,

Or jelly beans on a Sunday afternoon.

In the silence, it screams.

It panics the residents of the house it stays in.

It drives them to the windows and walls.

They desperately scrape at the drywall and wood.

They tear at the floor and try to dig up the foundation

They wish to escape the noise that crowds their ears every day.

The shouts of hatred and loathing that come through,

All the gruesome news of the day,

All the results of tests taken with trembling hands,

All the comments of those who didn’t think twice before giving their opinion.

These loathsome messages crowd out the good.

The residents are aware of the whispers of admiration and happiness

They know that the outside of their house looks like every other white picket lawn with white shutters.

They accept the compliments with grace.

The visitors are welcomed into the dining room which is comfy and cozy

Then they hear the radio.

It calls at them as well.

They see the marks of imprisonment on the walls and floor.

They can leave,

So they do.

The residents then pine for the next visit while the radio blares the story loudly over and over.

It will never end.