Absences

Static on the radio
like heavy rain on wet roads,
the drone of a classroom projector,
the noise I always imagined
porridge oats would make
given the chance,
when they’re settled in their bowl
just before the milk dampens them.

I don’t really know
what white noise means;
it sinks through words
like potholes in the road.

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About abigailbaross

Writer and aspiring publisher
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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