Moving Rhythm

A box sits neglected in the corner.
The cardboard dissolves into the dusty carpet
until it is too permanent to move.
Sundry somethings lie scattered.
Too much belongs there, so nothing does.

One day between now and then it will happen,
but this passing moment lived for a different tense.

The empty insides of the room rumbled,
echoed and reverberated. Skirts twirled,
shoes tapped their way into place.
Eager feet carried them far away
and soon time’s rhythm will waltz me, too.

Sinatra’s swing once resonated from the kitchen
and I remember just the way it looked that night.


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