He is the old cat

the one purring
half notes in undertones
from the shadows of the stage

he beckons with unearthly sounds

scaling in exclamation,
He casts his spell with blue notes
which conjure up his lover’s shape

she is a thin alto

he cannot help but look
as she slinks with effortless bravado
her figure the opus of lust

a binding contract with his demons

she whispers to him and
and he glows with stage light
like an ember inside the oven

dazed by fevers of unholy matrimony

I am teething on a future
as thick as a Goodyear
I hold on as it spins
and burns out
creating smoke and mirror finish
I make much ado
about moving in place

I listen to the static
on the stack of TVs
in the back of a Goodwill
Turn your ears to the proper channel
and you’ll hear the whispers
tucked under lo-def signal
Your eyes will adjust to the fuzz