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 …