Murder Soup

I am no stranger to melody.
In fact, I wrote them all.

In the white-and-brown doors
beneath the study I study myself,
coming to one conclusion: bats of
men playing sports -- years later --
will occupy my mind until,
at last, the end has come.

And so, putting it down, he threaded
the needle to the spoon in his hand
eating breakfast like a seamstress
perfecting her dad's cinema;
he eats, he weaves, he dreams,
she just stares at him. Is that
the waving of arms we required? She wonders.

Is this everything it was built up to be?
Large moments buried under shuddering
misunderstanding lament their subterranean
state.

Thus I, like a fossil re-animated, become
tonight's live-wire ghost.