Poetry

The investigation raises the steam,
That jostle the kettle into an unsteady rhythm.
Its exhale exudes a well-bred nervousness,
A jitter, jumbled into stirring, purring,
Music of the air.
A poorly choreographed dance flutters through,
The vocal cords,
They’ve been caught an idea they must express.

Love proves a difficult case,
When compared affections must be weighed,
Feathers are a poor anolog for the heart,
And the tails have no marks at their heads
While breathed thoughts lay hidden ‘neth a sprung trap,
Childish smiles drawn unto the face.

In this theater we take our own seats,
So the screen can yell some new obscenities.
We lick the plate dry and move on to the next thing.