The Wall (Poetry)

Beyond all but basic communication,
shut out from general conversation,
he sits twiddling the controls
like a lone radio operator searching the airwaves,
trying to tune into life.

The hearing aid whines his frustration,
our talk the twitter of birds,
senseless as any foreign station
fading into static.

Sometimes he ventures a remark
at odds with our subject,
abruptly drawing attention
and, like a mime show, we nod and smile,
witless. He is deaf not senile.

The lines are down - age has pulled the plug
and muddled silence crackles sympathy
for non-connection, where visitors left
their awkward whispers.

In his own company, the TV booms,
volume turned as loud as it will go,
distorting, rattling cups and window
while he watches, locked in its world -
its wall of babbling, incoherent sound
pulsing through him,
like faint music remembered from long ago.

When the screen blanks and noise dies,
both switch off, his expression empties,
resignation clouds his eyes -
he's gone off air again
and the failure's ours, not his.