Saturday, May 26, 2012

the paced tide of cars

Last night at 2:11
I hissed at the kettle
building too slowly to a boil,

“Keep the hell quiet.”

The family is asleep
or at least putting on a fine act
ignoring the small spoon
that tinkles the sides of
a glued and chipped yellow cup
prone to overheating.

Move to another room,
painted in softer tones,
accented by dimmer light.

The floor coughs,
older than classic poets.
These two sore feet
wage a silent protest
(passive if moving)
as two cracked hands
cradle the good earth
in tender ceramic.

I read a litany of early songs composed
prior to coronation
when life was risk.
(The selection is a random chance.)

My throat feels cracked
not for sickness
but for a heart broken
like a porcelain handle.

There is no utter silence at 2:42.
A tide of cars
tumble inland,
steady as waves.
Here and gone, here and gone,
like trust.

If I didn’t know better
I’d swear this city building
lay on the coast
like I lay next to her
each night, defined by the ocean.   

The overhead fan whispers
like an eight-year old boy—
at times a consonant clucks
from its mouth a little too loudly.

He is trying to say something to me iknowit.

But I’ll be damned if I can't distinguish
his mumbling from these wisps of
moving air. He would do better
to speak more quietly.

the paced tide of cars
a poem by troy cady

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