I might cry for I
Am of the tribe
Who has to make a scene
To be heard;
Who has grown
Accustomed to being
Talked over and
Talked down to.
Talked straight through.
My treble strains
Can’t keep up with the deep, deep bass,
When the drums’ thrumming runs
And I am the one who must bend to blend.
I’m used to the timid chair and pausing midair
Until the conductor points to me.
But my part is small and I’m thinking
Might be shrinking into silence,
Sitting useless on the sidelines,
There to make the band
But all the while making me feel...
Rise quickly and let that folding chair
Clatter to the ground,
Rattling over and
Rattling down and
Rattling straight through
The demanding demeanor
Of red-faced puffing conductor,
The collective gasp of shock
Clashing against audience sentiments lulled
Heavy with complacency.
Will I now be heard
Or will we all go along
Pretending the squirming discomfort
And embarrassing moment
Of looking truth dead in the eyeNever happened at all?
Listen to the author read here.
From a Story Sessions write-in prompt: "When do you feel heard?"