Michael Neal Morris
The wind chimes aren’t so cheerful
as they tried to be this morning.
Their notes are sharp, with the teeth
of a dog tired of reminding the world:
we are all suspicious of pedestrians.
This is my second walk of the day
as I try to chase off the blahs,
psych myself up for the coming months,
already dreading summer, aware
I have aged out of leisure.
I sip hot tea and listen
to the produced music streaming
into my center of the warming hovel.
Pianos settle the room, and
ghosts return to their corners.
The chimes hang on, then blend
with the liquid traveling my throat.