Silent

I spent the day in a black and white movie,
the kind where no-one could make a noise.
I practiced talking with my eyebrows.
I stretched them higher than buildings
at the shock of friends getting hit by ladders

or having pies thrown at their faces.
I spoke with my knees and bent down
and my trousers tore at the seams
and fingers worked out how to point.  
I ate whispered food and didn’t slurp
my dark whiskey on silent rocks.

I drank another and another and another
and no-one heard me smash the glass
over the front of my skull. You were
in the corner of the bar, inventing sound,
threatening to change the world.