A melancholy soul is penning verses
downstairs, between two pillars and a post,
imposing limitations on himself
with rhyme and beat, for lack of confidence.
The box fan makes a loosely grumbling host.
Mahogany and brass support the shelf
beside him, where a singing child rehearses
building with letter blocks that make no sense.
He eyes his tiny diva with suspicion,
up close, as if beneath a microscope,
when all her structures falter from their forms,
intrude into each other’s sides and fall.
She rocks back, grasps a plastic antelope.
Her aria is put on hold, as swarms
of crickets chirp a raspy composition
beyond the doors of the adjoining hall.
He knows she will rebuild the forms. She sees
Abandonment would only spell defeat.
And even now, the crickets have begun
To make their partial choruses complete.