he’s listening. His eyes
are slats that overlap like venetian
blinds. But I’m a crayon. And I’m
coloring outside the lines.

He looks like
he hears the echoes
from my lips.  His ears
don't slip on the ice. And we've rolled
this dice more than once or twice.

He looks like
he's up for the drill. His head
is filled from music; he holds in his
hands. But I’m tired of the carousel. Riding
a horse that doesn’t touch ground, circling again
round and round.