Tonight I write in silence

But that's False

There's the TV in the background keeping me company. The glow of the screen reflected in the window in front of me.
And, there's the wrap-a-tap-tap of the keys I depress, that makes sound (when I'm writing, not just thinking of what I wish I was writing).
My neck itches and I brush across it with my fingernails, that makes a sound.
Now, behind my ears and on my scalp I scratch just to hear the huh-shreeet, and to satisfy a feeling that will be back. If not there then under my sweatshit, across my ribs, an itch emerges.
I get up to get a drink of water. I'm thirsty and have forgotten to drink anything these last few hours. I think, to make up for it I'll suck back a mouthful fast. Water becomes absorbed even before I swallow.
Back in my seat I stare at the window reflecting the screen. I run my tongue across my teeth. There's plaque I find on one particular tooth. My tongue stays on it as I become obsessed.
Now it's my neck. It itches, the stubble that's grown for a few days feels funny when I flick up to my chin my fingers, making an obscene gesture to my computer.
Now my ears, wax or hair tingles and I stick my index inside, my pinky finger's nail's grown too long.
Now my nose, hair or dried snot feels wrong and I rub and tug but nothing wants to come out.
It's everything and nothing you notice when you are alone.
My scalp I scratch and cover with a hood. My lip I lick and I stick my tongue out. Hands dance across the keys. I stop and run my finger's tip over my eyebrow. With the grain, then against. Toes go cold and tonails are noticed to be too long too. I'm tired, can't clip em. Don't want to hear the sound of snip em. The feeling of parting with part of me.

A Bird in the Airport

How does a bird get inside the airport? Past revolving doors, security. Through checked points and into the sitting areas by gates to planes waiting to be boarded. I don't know how this bird I'm looking at got this far; I had a hard enough time getting here.

In Denver, an older man slaps his unshaved face and looks out the airport window, he gazes at the snow-covered tarmac. He grins at a young girl standing on the other side of a temporary fence sponsored by the airline that calls this airport its hub. One of its hubs. The man is creepy, no doubt about it. His look–unshaven, as mentioned–is unkept; his hair is long, tied back in a ponytail and tucked underneath a faded royal blue baseballcap. His denim attire and his yellow teeth place him, in my mind, in the labor intensive workforce. He’s not a typical airport person. He grins again and points at the girl and then at the bird, which is hopping on the ground below, picking at popcorn particles displaced by shoe soles.

The bird hops about, still. Takes flight, even, in this airport. The girl doesn’t appear interested and moves further away from this man, which is relieving. The girl’s parents, who have an English accent, don’t fear the man, their concentration is currently on the whereabouts of a missing windbreaker, set down by their son, the brother of the curious girl, who’s mistake today was a kind gesture, alerting the older man of the cell phone he dropped on the ground. Lost in conversation, he doesn’t realize he’s disconnected from his wireless communication device.

And maybe he’s not a construction worker. Maybe I was wrong about that. He pulls out a laptop and makes me reconsider my stereotypes.