the season of interruptions
The bathtub's falling into disrepair. The dining table's full of bills. The kids need
new socks, warmer boots. The screen door's pointless with no handle. The garage
could use a clearing out. The oleanders should probably come inside.
The dryer's on the verge, too, marking time until the fuses fray. There's a phone message
I am forgetting to return. And yet, underneath, the hum of something else, nuanced
and abstracted. Almost-words, a near-song, a tremble of piano music my hands
can't possibly have learned. It's hard to believe a disorder doesn't
drown the skinny line of syllables threading through this moonscape of demands.
How a melody emerges like counterpoint, the barest warble in the din.
How I lean toward these shy and scattered poems. What I tune out. What I tune in.