In Monotone

the cellphone beeps
again still, still
vibrating reverberating

this morning another way
off the nonchalant beat.
Out in the streets,

where your car
sings in chorus
with the traffic jam.

The uninviting elevator
music, which never lifts

whatever good mood is until the door keeps on
keeping more people. A soundproof room

until the door keeps everyone
out of like air out of an accordion.

Again, the band
of officemates working as if playing
with keyboards, the ballad
of photocopying machines
that repeats the same words
announcing the less intervals
of future lunch breaks.

And then you do a solo,
center stage, and everyone listens.

The aria of a man you were
tired to call boss, with his unholy
benediction of spit and litany.

The elegy of another walk
lost in refrain, and after the light
claps of the rain, you bow down
to the asphalt’s silence.


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