Ben

Your typical coffee shop
People sitting about
Scents of Colombia filling the air
Newspapers up high with heads down low
The mood what you want
Familiar faces of people I don’t know
Boring things on the wall, some call it art
Like I stated, your typical shop
Through the door rolls in a group of seven
Baby through adults with smiles between the ears
A toy in the youngest hand
The device made simple
A stick lined with bells, a sure death to the senses
They find their seats, ironically next to mine
Sounds of the bells fill the air
Piercing my skull, a hard task to do
Heads of others stay still, looking through their eyebrows
The bells grow louder, like sounds of a Sunday service
Now running around the bells are here and there
Inside my head this kid is racing with bells in hand
His mother unaware at the noise in my brain
A quick stare from myself and those around me
An alarm bell in her head that something is wrong
Finally the bells will stop
Quasimodo will be put to rest
She fills her lungs, the bells must stop
Ben
This is what comes out
A name to a noise is what I have learned
Yet the ringing continues
My ears about to fall off
He finds a new tool, the arm of a sofa
The bells grow louder
My hearing coming to an end
Another look gets her attention
Quick to act, she responds with urgency
Ben…Ben…Ben…Ben…Ben…Ben…Ben…Ben…Ben…Ben…Ben…
LOUDER THE BELLS
Ben…Ben…Ben…Ben…Ben…Ben…Ben…Ben…Ben…Ben…Ben…
CLANG CLANG CLANG
His father now chimes in, this indeed will end
Ben………Ben………Ben………Ben………Ben………Ben…….Ben………
CLANG
Ben
CLANG
Ben….but with the finger, a line has been drawn
CLANG
My ears made numb
She quickly makes way, a mother at her ends
Little Ben now answering for his sins
She takes away the bells
As simple as that
I can still hear, much to my surprise
I hear coffee being made
Quiet old people talking
The thump of a child’s head hitting a table
His crying fills the air
It is Ben
His mother gives him the bells