the grasshoppers hum a tune not so tense
compared to the sparse seconds of silence that fill any free space
while leaving it just as empty

without the key to the house of habits where silence is expected
and unable to rely on unbreakable, but bearable assumptions
they are trapped with everywhere to go

a desperate call of help reaches the other line
"help, we're locked out of our anguish
and it's only causing us more"

with a tired smirk of sympathy
frankenstein comes to free his creator
rather than deem retaliation

relieved to return to an acceptable agony
one brought on by their own free will
sir sinks into his recliner
and lady, her couch
accompanied by the sacred television
that never fails, for inside here
the programs are on a schedule
and every silence is planned
and purposeful