November 8, 2018


The Quiet


its quiet, too quiet

nothing but the hum of my computer

the buzz of my space-heater

and the rumble of the rooftop unit

even my semi-infinite playlist, is muted

submerged in this soundless drone

like a waterlogged tree

other than a uni-directional “Good Morning!”

not a word has been spoken

all day

(but those whispered to God

and those of polite assistance

or directly related to work)


I am surrounded by The Quiet


though I wear it overcoat-like

it fails to keep the chill at bay

amidst all this noiselessness

I ask myself,

“Did I do something wrong?”


The Quiet
A poem by Peter Rhebergen

Copyright 2021

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