Examiner

Looking at love.

What is it with this man, the man I seek to marry?
He drums fingers nervously upon the tabletop,
or on the kitchen sink, or even on his knee
at times when watching football games.
His quirking little fingers go
as rapid drumming flesh, so much so
that I am squeezed into my present margin,
taut beyond calm innocence,
quick to snap,
a dhow on troubled waters.
I am average citizen
impacted by queer rap, annoying drone
of digit tap, phalanges’ knavish spree.
Ancient are my ancestors, hubbub of earthly bent,
the shattering of silences with anatomical device.
I edge my teeth beyond mere gnaw,
lie as a slant, undignified.
Or as a fawn, tend to the cat
while constant thump reigns on.
Those fingers go--I shall compare such peeves extant,
then clear my throat as compensation,
examining love’s sway.


22 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
12-1-14