sound track

our soundtrack
skipped records
dusty cassettes
ready to snap
8-track era crooning
no one else can hear

should we turn it off
or turn it up louder
each note someone
agonized over
we are all part
of the stew

take your face and try
to keep it silent
isolated in a sea
of countless faces
who know you better
than you know yourself

need we understand
why we can’t
move forward
stuck fast
and its me I know
that’s keeping me here

me with my hand
in the cookie jar
four decades
and I won’t let it go
the secrets of the unwise
locked up

in two hands
one no good
without the other
they press at the door
wood creaking
screaming for me
that time is running out

can we cha-cha
through the nights
so no one will notice
we are slipping
music so loud
it drowns out the
expectations

the band playing for days
feet flying
over wood
polished to a luster
blinding us
to all we remember

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