No Music in the Music Room
We admired the lindens mired in mud 
with all the mirth of the careless
as I pressed an ear to his chest 
to hear all the stories 
never read to me at bedtime.
He pressed an ear to me
to hear the aviary in my artery.
You’ve got me all a-flutter, peanut butter.
The baby mouse we saw was dead, intact,
held beauty sharp as a thumb-tack, 
but he flinched his look away from the window
to the piano cover that crouched 
in the corner like a needy black lab.
O, my misty muffin, my discreet-pea, 
your X is so sexy, your Y is so yow,
your Z is the very zenith of huzzow.
There was no music in the music room
except for the time-ticked numbers 
on the wall above the numb piano.
Tell me, why do we want the clock to go tick tock
when it really goes tock tock tock?
Because the heart-sick talk of tick tock
is both the want, and the have.
You’re the cat’s pajamas, 
you’re the bee’s knees—
nonexistent; unnecessary.
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