A Sympathetic Susceptibility

I shovel the wax out of my ear

with a protein reenforced fingernail,

dump it on to a peasant's cart

used to ferry passengers to and fro

mostly from this remote railway station.

Here the station master sulks when

his daughter mistimes his dinner,

delivers it cold and unwelcoming.

I am now able to sense a chorus of townspeople,

even observe them gather on a moonlit hill.

They are transporting something in chains

and thick ropes and are not quiet about it.

This phenomenon is, weather willing, seasonal.

My booking agent emphatically assures me

the static air will carry no other voices,

and after a reasonable amount of time

a cleansing rain should amicably descend.