Three sports minded looking (shorts, windbreakers, running shoes)
men in their late sixties, early seventies in fine fit shape,
eating frozen yogurt and chatting about American Idol,
debating which singers touch their hearts rather than
merely their ears and how Adele, who has a powerful voice,
sings the same sounding songs all the time while outside
the kidlets also dressed in shorts, tennies and windbreakers,
well they just spin and run and chase and throw caps to the floor
“Pop!” and squeal and drag little sisters and brothers by the hand.
As I in my cloud of sleepless fuzz watch behind a counter through
the protective pane of legitimacy, bleary eyed, she who cannot
help but listen and let the wordy notes of lilting song and sting
float in and out of me, touching my nerves in a gentle buzz and click,
anodizing the metal of my thoughts to clumping the hours abiding.
A glance at my bloody finger, cuticle ripped down to the root, reminds
me the angst trembles beneath the calm veneer–tomorrow’s near,
and the dancing devils and retinue request (demand) my presence.