The hearing aid sank slow in the minestrone,
a plastic shrimp in a sea of orange broth.
It hummed a low, electric hymn
to the floating carrots and the grease.
You sat across from me, nodding like a pigeon,
your smile a series of polite, empty rooms.
I watched the device vibrate against a bean,
translating the silence into a high, thin scream.
We didn't speak of the divorce or the debt,
just passed the salt with trembling fingers.
The soup grew cold, a stagnant pond
where the only thing listening was a piece of beige plastic.