Out Of Tune

With the first chord, I know
she’s out of tune enough
that this is not going to be pretty.
I don’t care. Two more strums
and I can tell which pegs
I could twist just a hair to bring her back.
I don’t care.
Right now, it’s all I can do
to keep from plugging her in
just as she is
although it’s late
and everyone for a block around
is sleeping, and will call
for my head if I do it. I don’t.
Instead, I bang on for a hot quiet minute
like neither of us has a future.
As if this dissonance, this breakdown
between tolerable noise and
“what the fuck is he thinking,”
is an imperative. Because of course,
it is; at least for tonight,
right now, before I go to bed angry;
right now, as I try to keep myself
from going to bed angry.

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