There are sirens constantly blaring,
Near this place I learned to call home;
The night air is chilly, like it reeks–
Old winter-breath, touched with decaying frost-bite.
The fridge trudges on:
Foot-steps mechanical-sounding in the artificial silence I’ve created with the remote;
A lone dog howls,
Motor-cycles roar by,
But in all this symphonic malarkey,
My phone is awkwardly mum–
No fancy two-beat.
Merely the hanging coffin,
Of the long four count rest.
Sunday, May 3, 2015. 23:32 hrs.