The Beat Goes On

You greet me, this vicious callithump
banging drawers and pots and pans
A self-appointed marshal of ceremonies

You flash red, the billboard of our love,
fire synaptically around our countertops.
I applaud your grace, but I get the game.

Let's pretend the primordial wheels that
parade you around my existence ceased
to churn, left you exiled to my open arms.

Let's say you emptied those trunks filled
with metallic exhalations, and weighted them
with the vulnerable whisper of  "hold me, love"

Can you imagine how much lighter you
could float not being a constant display of
grief, not tied to an entourage of regret?

I have tried to enjoy the steady thump of
you marching in and out of my sight, tried to
ignore the screeching of those wheels.

But I already know, as I lean to kiss you,
this is all just a junk shot in the dark
and soon, the music will come to an end.