T O B Y'S
M O U T H

	It seemed as though Toby spent a lot of time screaming.	
	In the middle of Main St., feet planted wide across the
yellow line, arms hanging at his sides.  Toby stood there with his 
mouth wide open, his face an inflamed red flag.  Every day Toby stood
there, screaming.  Watching from the sidewalk I thought that cars might
begin to drive right through his open mouth and then down his throat.
	Which they never did.  
	The scream changed slightly from day to day and year to year,
variances in tone, pitch, volume, sometimes warbling, cracking, 
sometimes drawn out long and steadily.  Watching from the sidewalk I 
thought that people might react, might hear him screaming and stop
or see him screaming and wonder. 
	Which they never did.
	Once in a while a glance in passing or a barely perceptible
headshake or nod was the only response Toby's screaming ever received.
The other day I asked the pharmacist (in an uncomfortably loud voice
to make up for his malfunctioning hearing aid) whether he knew why Toby
was screaming.  He told me "I suppose he keeps screaming because he 
wants to be heard."  I started a blaringly thoughtful reply and he
snapped "Could you please keep your voice down?  You're startling
the other customers."  He then went back to filling prescriptions.
	I had been about to say "I suppose he's been screaming for
too long to ever be heard again," but that doesn't matter now since
yesterday a car finally did drive right down Toby's throat 
(figuratively speaking of course) and he was tucked inside a bag
and taken away.  I imagine him lying there with his mouth wide open,
his face a sagging white flag.  Silence makes me feel something now,
that I didn't feel before.  Silence tells me something, but I can't
yet hear what it says.