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