An earworm takes residence

You know the doorbell like the shape of a day. It is a long yawn,

one handspan, an octave stretch. You listen, every digit is for

counting intervals. You open the fridge, clench and unclench,

bury a melody in pockets. The bell sounds in the adjacent flat.

Debt collectors or a bouquet on the doorstep.

The crook of your ear forms a question, a bass clef. Someone

stands at your door holding the cat. You are barefoot in pyjamas, a

tune looping behind eyelids. You blink and listen. Somebody is

mowing the lawn.

You like the sun for company at breakfast, set at the table, served on a plate.

Moments after the door closes in the morning, the bell startles. Sorry – keys! A net

bag hangs on the back of the door, a mirror on the wall.

The issue with an earworm is that it has no climax.

There are aphids on the indoor plant.

The doorbell goes. Delivery for your neighbour, can you take it?

This parcel has some damage to the corner, but you sign for it.

Like starlings, you trill and mimic the bell, sound it on your soft

palate. A siren orbits in the distance. Voices decorate the

architecture of the estate.

You hear the accident through the open window. Soap glazes

your wrists. You dry them off on a towel. The bell rings a

minute later. Somebody looks very pink.

A shadow stretches across the hall. The day is diluted. Light on your screen

disrupts concentration. The tune returns. Outside, socks hang like crotchets

on the line. The octave jump begins just like Somewhere Over A Rainbow or

Singing in the Rain. Its looping reminds you of a chorus of school children

learning a rhyme. Your phone vibrates.

An earworm bores a helix like a maggot through an apple. It has no respect for

the integrity of the fruit.

Inside the flat, there is a ladder open beneath the light.

I am HERE and READY, says a friend. They stand on the

bottom rung while you reach for the bulb. Dust is

disturbed from the shade as you twist it out of place.

You are on hold to the insurance company. In the playground, the bell announces

the end of breaktime. The children form queues along the painted lines. The

neighbour rings the bell. Do you have a delivery for me?

There are apples in a bowl. You toss one to the tempo in your head

and hum aloud. Sometimes you pull the table to the centre of the

room, so it can accommodate a seat on every side. When you lived

with many, a gong was rung on the ground floor to call people to

dinner. The microwave pings to signify one minute of spinning.

Filling your ears with rubber or water makes no difference. The

tune is an hallucination. It persists in the shower, in the quiet

of a car. You sing it as you dig out laundry from the drum, as

you pass the neighbour on the stairs, as you cross the yard.

The bell rings aloud and wakes the baby. Can I borrow a bottle opener? A neighbour

stands at the threshold. The tune is a pulse. Cigarette smoke rises from downstairs.

You are nodding, silhouetted.

It is your colleague at the door. I didn’t mean to interrupt, they

say. You let them inside and pour two glasses of wine. When your

friend joins, she bellows, it’s me! You smile and flick the kettle on

as she makes her way upstairs.