You talk
I listen
then I nod
I draw a line on a piece of paper
You spill the coffee
I drop the needles on the record
It’s Bach … it’s black … it’s plastic
But it’s perfect
D minor doesn’t sooth your mood
You are an ‘A’ flat with a suspended seventh
laid over burnt sienna dipped in cobalt blue
I crash-land to negotiate
and offer numbers: 2 … 4 … 8 …
But you withdraw into your prime
Rebel with: 9 … and 47
We’re disconnected
Line’s dead
Confused we look for rust
The gold was real
but the finger chose to leave the ring
The ash has smoldered the best of memories
Sinks drained the rest
What’s left of our tastefully composed duet
diminished into a solo tennis game
Go hit the wall
We’re interrupted.
