quiet

She lies on the bed reading her book. Beside her, he
lies on his back, listening to what he suspects
is a crunching noise only he can hear, and picking
at his chin. The red sheets are lit by a lamp.
From behind the wall at the head of the bed hums
the dryer. What is afoot tonight, in the fresh world
outside? This is the game we play. This hour
is nothing but a period in a book that lasts forever.
In Kansas, the wind can blow so hard it sounds like
pebbles striking the window. My girl turns the page,
her quiet chin rested on folded arms. Us humans,
we're lovely. What do the beasts think, when a bashful
man with mournful eyes scratches words onto paper, madly?
He must be full of himself, or just plain nuts. Come
to think of it, I've never run across a human being
that wasn't inherently strange in its own way. Except
for me. I know the Truth. I know how everything
is supposed to be. I was born with it; everyone else,
all you other people, all you others are crazy.