Music notes swarmed the back of Mrs. Kemp’s tweed coat.
Her arthritic body moored in the pew while the rest of us rose
and sat and knelt, singing stalwart hymns and liturgy. Since she
could not see the score her mouth droned on in raspy monotone.
Now, lounging on my bed, styrofoam notes splatter the ceiling
that plasterers composed years ago. High octaves fly off
broken staves. Cornice to cornice, I read them all. Helplessly.
I regret the lack of smooth surfaces. Like vines, like viruses,
notes cling to everything and multiply. Strange scales groan
inside my gut. Stick and whine in my tinnitus. Pulse and quake
inside closed eyes. The sound of discontent crying out for harmony.
Better to listen to the cat, whose purring lulls all sound to sleep.