My ear filaments prickle, catching
faintly audible tremors,
growing more distinct as its source
crawls closer, sending out
a whimsical rendition of ‘Pop Goes The Weasel’.
Minutes slide by, counted
in jingling coins scooped
from under cushions,
hands double-dipping
into chairs and couches,
foggy breaths against
latched casements
that blur the little bouncing figures flinging
themselves to the barren asphalt.
A singsong melody blares forth
from a mechanical megaphone
and the tune circles round, gaining
momentum,
tightly
winding
like
a
jack-
in-
the-
box.
I linger, expecting
a climax, but the crescendo barrels back
to begin the melody once again.
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