every time i hear a loud noise outside
in the dead of night,
i assume there’s some boogeyman come to
collect a toll i didn’t realize i needed to pay,
don’t pass go,
don’t say ho-ho-whoa
eyelashes pickled in tears made
from swimming in dreams shut down and outsourced
to developing countries that can dream cheaper
by the hour
by far
ending a game of musical chairs for the purpose
of stepping out into the hallway to have a very, serious, conversation
with our kids’ future teacher who doesn’t
believe in math
but keeps adding the slumbering numbers to
find the answer to abstract equations
left in fields
of grass
of blood
the room grows quiet,
a melancholy song skips on the record player
that you bought me for my thirtieth birthday last year
when i was going through a hipster phase,
which i’ve said i’m sorry about,
but i still like the music playing in the background,
even when it sounds discordant and lacks melody
Fred Aiken Writing 