witch's broom

When the sad song 

is okay to listen to

Before the pages fall out

and feelings unglue-

The patter of rain

at dark

beneath the front gate

moving sunset

turning car.

The drabble of voice in head 

Sometimes I forget 

what I meant in the end

inside the same story 

I write again

a version slightly better,

a cabin this time, in a forest 

with a painting almost done

of night flying.

A light spray 

on the face.

Layer on top of chai 

breaks

instead of a smooth lifting off spoon.

I play 

music in the kitchen 

like my aunt.

tell Nano to put the ice cream wrapper

inside empty tea cup 

like dado does. 

Everything was somebody else’s first

dark dress and black cat.

Sometimes the brush 

does not stroke a curl

and soufflé does not puff

Suddenly,

the cat can only meow.

Somethings are a hum 

that do not hush.

It oscillates again

in a cabin, in a forest this time

lifting off any broom

When the happy song

is no longer sad…