to god & its poet

so real wanders in my direction from the corner of my room,
stacked CDs & cassettes and that glorious centerpiece:
too-new boombox with its bluetooth-wireless/enhanced-stereo-sound,
oh goodness– that sound! that sweet, sweet plastic transmitting sound,
those strings of yours making sound– the way they pause for your voice.
that holding back– slow drawl to a stop– waiting on hand & foot for the quiet
scratch of your vocals at the door, to open it up & let them come crawling
in. you are a call and response, a tender hesitance; the crack in your voice
that betrays you, revealing the genuine; the craving, pining, desire
that causes you to pause; the strain of creating a song from a poem.
this is only somewhat like a smile playing across my face when she replies
to your deceptively gentle tone; muses on nusrat playing through your fingers.
maybe more aptly like the moment i must first decide who my emergency contact is.
it stays the same as it always has, for now, and my heart still shudders.
the moon is full like a plate: i have circled the block in my mind again, and the wind
is calling our names, but the time is near. this beautiful morning, i turn off the boombox.
this time, she is by my side & the battery is hanging on by a thread, but not dead.

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