The Metronome’s Magic

If you’re still you can hear it
whistle on the wind,
pat on the doorframe, and
make the concrete resonate.
The turquoise terracotta
wears cracks of rattled decades;
sprouting leaves and flailing
serenades to a sun that skirts the roofs.
There’s something whispering
beneath our causeway in urgent,
slapping, caustic tones;
oh my knees it creeps right through me,
bludgeoning and fibrous.
When the soft, bombastic music
stutters to water growling down the drain,
I’m mortified that this
will never be the same.