Reading to the Deaf

Mumbled words flow through my mouth, seemingly bypassing my brain, tumbling out in a rhythmic cascade. Behind my eyelids all is dark, so I can imagine the echo I hear is because my audience is wrapped up in what I’m saying.

From somewhere far away, a small bell tolls. It startles me and the worn, black book with the collapsing coil binding slips from my hands. I don’t open my eyes, but, as if in slow motion, I can hear the tattered paper fluttering just before the book lands on the smooth marble floor with a final slap.

Eyes open, back to reality.  I look down past my dirty navy-blue jumpsuit, the rags growing from my pockets, my scuffed black work shoes, and to the book lying akimbo a few inches from my toes. Return it to my back pocket. I will write those words down later after dusting the airplane.

While I gather my cleaning supplies again, I think about how the words just drip from my tongue; a tap that cannot be completely turned off. Like the far faucet in the main men’s bathroom that I will fix later.

The museum is long empty, the great halls quiet and illuminated only with dim, filtered light. The museum pieces were my only audience tonight while I spoke on my vast stage. Perhaps someday I will make it to the big leagues and actually have an audience who can respond. But first, the chrome fenders on the vintage blue Lincoln need polishing.