Waiting for the elephant

The evening falls dream slowly over the neighbourhood like
a fleece blanket lofted by a mother over her feverish child.
We sit, inhaling clatter of far off street traffic
through banks of tall maples crowding the edges of the back yard.
You wait for me to say more:
I am blank, hoping for declaration of some other catastrophe
to interrupt.
It is my turn to shrug, grasp at some hook in the sky,
some saving inspiration.
You stir the empty place on your plate with your fork’s tines.
Somebody a few yards over clears his throat.
A door opens, briefly spewing somebody’s private caramba!
A siren leaves the nearby firehall, tears down the street, fades.
I dig into my brain realizing that silence
is not the response I want to make:
it argues too much in your voice,
drowning all I could say.