Cacophony

Jeffery Allen Tobin

The brass key rattles in its throat,

a loose, dissonant tooth in the door’s long jaw.

A sparrow tilts from the fencepost,

drops a single, uncertain note—

then silence, frayed at the edges.

The kettle, left to its own devices,

remembers its purpose too late,

whistling out an afterthought of steam.

In the stairwell, a socked foot brushes dust

into a hush of waiting corners.

There is a rhythm to departure,

an unscored symphony of hinge and sigh—

of suitcase latches clicking like castanets,

of fabric folding, the whisper of linen

drawing back from the skin of the bed.

Between the floorboards, the hum of absence

warms to a fugue, modulates in time

with the lisp of an unseen draft.

Outside, the wind—striking up its grand pretense—

fumbles in the branches for a proper tune.