Boomboom, boomboom, boomboom, . . .
In my room, my one and only room
Our speaker is just for myself
It's my one and only gift
slow yet effective
The boom boom
Languid and special
We pause as each boom goes by
Sniffing to smell the air for more powerful booms
Touching the booms like we were in contact with them
Savoring our apartness
Our closeness suddenly drifting away
This poem wants to be short but unique
The moment wants to be long but plain
The shiny hardwood floor, the empty wall, the clothes piled up in a heap, the bed we share for years together
All this wants to be forever, the music, us, everything
Particularly the embrace of one another we once had
The tearing open of a present I will never forget
The near tearing when it is over and there is nothing like this on the horizon, nothing at all
The empty bottle sitting there, alone, apart, broken.
What is the sum of 9 and 8:
It's your turn! Move into the poem. Renovate it. Knock down its walls. Put your spin on it. Make it your own.