Night at the Opera

I can see your lips
moving, gums flapping
with something of great
importance, but I can't
hear a word you're
saying. The words that
sing and singe from
your open lips
are not the ones I
want to hear and so
I let them fall away
one by one, like
notes struck boldly
on a piano, but with
no melody to hold them
up. This doesn't stop
you. There is a point
to be made and so you
hold center stage,
it's your own personal
opera in a foreign
tongue, a marathon
of discord and
discontent, but I'm
already down the aisle,
removing my tie, my
shirt, flipping off
my shoes. I am nearly
home free while the
sound of your voice
echoes in the almost
empty hall.