So this is what it comes to
Tired, alone, past the night's second shade of darkness.
The cable's out and the moisture dankens the air,
Tempts my tongue of a swarthing of a drink.
Fans blow in separate directions
Singing their mechanical song.
Music fills my head of its own intention.
I think and try to imagine other songs
To test its power
But behind the flowing air,
And the rattling hum at three separate frequencies,
As if it were coming from the glass,
All around me,
--nowhere at all-
The simple tune controls the silence