I fill my mouth with noise,
stifling in it, retching drily
over the jumble of words.
Then I do not have to listen
to the silence, do not have to notice
those who have fallen through the gaps.

I drown the beggar on the street corner
with talk of investment opportunities;
the woman whose womanhood has been stolen
by life-giving drugs stands no chance
against my consideration of washing powder brands;
African children on the News, globe-bellied with malnutrition,
have voices too weak to compete with my complaints
about the rising licence fee. I choke on words,
without meaning, that pour from my mouth
as the widow opposite me on the bus chokes
back tears at memories of a man decimated by war.

The voids in their lives are too fragile to resist
the rushing onslaught of my mindless conversation,
that does not pause for breath or thought.