For him ordinary sounds were
such extraordinary things.
Umbrellas fluttered
and he heard wings flap.
Softly thrumming drums
offered faint heartbeats.
A shoe with no foot in it …
its steps could be heard
And then cancer moaned.
Death — — — on a white screen.
And he did it so well, so fast.
For him – such a pity
death was such a quiet and commonplace thing.
No to be’s or not to be’s.
Like Ripley said, we’re all gonna die.
The only question is how you check out.
I can still hear him whenever I like.
I fry bacon to listen to his rain.
Starship Enterprise still buzzes the universe.
The Walking Dead still groan.
Only the Corleones fell silent.
In memory of Foley (sound effects) artist David Lee Fein (1948-2024). He worked on the films referenced in this poem, among many others.
