A Cup of Quiet

The applause has
faded,

the room is
silent,

the silence is
qualified.

It coughs, shuffles, mutters,
crinkles its programme,
stifles a…
…a sneeze.

A silence
like watered-down wine,
like holding hands
through mittens,
like the first coat of white
on a bright orange wall.

And from the stage
the black prison
of the breathing apparatus
whispers,
and then whispers,
and then whispers,
like new sandpaper
on old stone.

A Cup of Quiet

The hands are poised,
poised,
but those first notes
have yet to be
poured.