He is the placated moderate to whom
She sang from the rolls of blankets and down,
Her voice rising and falling with his snores
Like a maudlin black and white silent film.
The notes reverberate from the windows,
Only the flat tones escaping leaving
A chorus of angelic harmony
To buzz around his head, swarming, soothing.

I’ve a mind or two to answer the dreary
Deluge coming through my windows with a
Pompous palling of my morning greeting.
I’ve half a mind to join in the cleaving
Canticle in the half-priced, whole wheat room
Mirroring, spear-heading into my mind.

He relaxes in the cot beside the
Blooming bed where she nests her acoustic
Lullaby, her mawkish, potential heart
With it’s syrupy marinating call.
She watches her Agamemnon peruse
His subliminal mind, bathing in her song,
Writhing under the weaving net of notes,
One with the sinews of her loving trap.

She watches her Agamemnon remising
To her maudlin silent film disguising
My somber, homeless notes in a glaze of
Half-priced potential and sugary braise.