Clock hands circle lethargically. Heels
clack, a distant speaker hisses –
muted, surreal.

I shift on a green vinyl chair, eyes
trace an arc from clock to window.
Outside, a succubus sun
kisses children at play.

At my father’s bedside, both of us
wish I wasn’t. I despise myself
for watching the minutes, and him

for teaching me to. Broken
conversations keep awkward vigil
for something long dead.

Ryan Stone


18 thoughts on “Muted

  1. That was incredible, Ryan. So somber and melancholy. You captured the hospital setting and a relationship perfectly. I can actually relate to this, because I don’t have a good relationship with my own father, or I should say it’s one with few words. I’ve often thought of his last moments and what would be said. Brilliant image as well. ๐Ÿ™‚

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I can smell the hospital and hear the noise, and see shadows of white moving in and out. Time has never seemed to stop so still before reading this. How skillfully you pull me in with every poem. I feel I am not just a voyeur anymore, but sitting there, next to the speaker..

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Doing this one now, with my father-in-law, I never really liked him that much, ever since Carole became sick 35 years ago, and he’d only visit his suffering daughter a few times a year over those 30 years, and yep, from half a mile away, up the same street !!

    Liked by 1 person

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