Vibrations

It might just be my fading ears,

but it seems to me

those new, thick windows and sliders

throughout our forever home

have stolen most of the outside sounds:

the cars and trucks

(but not the ambulances),

the roofers shouting

from the condos across the street,

(but not their supervisor)

the lawn mowers

(but not the leaf blowers).

Sadly, the small birds,

(but not the doves),

and, alas, the wind chimes.

But there’s one window

we did not replace,

a tallish, narrow,

louvered one in my bathroom,

next to where I write my poems.

It has an odd knob,

like the one that opens the gas fireplace valve.

When that window’s open, louvers ajar,

especially in the morning,

I can hear the traffic from the freeway,

a mile or so away,

the working folks on their daily trek south.

They start in the dark of night,

and return again, before dusk.

Long retired now,

I wonder about them.

Are they happy?

Do they like their work?

(If not, why do they do it?)

Fear?

(probably).

I send them a little prayer,

wishing them joy,

hoping they find their bliss,

before the sounds of

can’t and don’t and mustn’t

freeze them before the daily tidal wave

(or, at least, I hope they learn to surf).