Sigh

Piped music leaks into the air.

Like the sinister hiss of a punctured tire,

the sexless screams warn of love 

waning, the lyrics falsetto and fixed

in time.  Grown men squeal stories 

of failed affairs, unfaithful partners, 

their own fault obscured by limited range

and the muffled domain of headphones.    

The “Oh Woe Is Me” and “I Been Done Wrong” — 

barely a whine in a room meant for romance — 

mute the real longing slipping from his lover’s lips.

Songs of sorrow, his lover sings, her mouth

moving in synch with the imposed agendas

of powdered boys, pierced ears, noses, and penises.

Maimed, malfunctioning, or dead, these singers 

memorialized by wannabe rock stars, 

women, anywhere-but-here kind of guys 

(most of them balding with guts that belie 

the glory days of high school or betray 

years of lazy-boys and beer).  

“Back in the day” he says to his lover.  She

stifles a yawn and unwraps another bon-bon.

Hunkered down in rolls of fat, she folds 

into the corner of the couch and longs 

for something to happen.  Anything:  a change
of channel, another romance 
to arrive by mail, maybe an earthquake.