Of late

I've stared past

fork-strewn dinner plates;

 

tines pinging like tuning forks,

precise and crystalline:

 

from scratches on ruled pads,

to clacking on fading keyboard tiles, 

to taps on smudged touch screens --

 

thoughts and feelings exiled, martyred

for existence beyond skull and ribs.

 

Of late  

my chin bobs

to strains of melodies;

 

countering the blare of the radio beats.

No one sees this march to my own drums.