elegy in b flat.

cold feet on concrete
& i'm trying to pay attention,
but your words are washing over me
like a verbal tidal wave.

teeth chattering,
cigarette shaking.
i love you like my own mother.
sometimes i think i love you
more than your daughter.

my mind is racing &
you are droning on about
inconsequential things.

so here is my musical backdrop:
middle-aged voice intoning
tv blaring
teenaged daughter squealing
thuds on the stairs
the sharp inhale of two cigarettes
& the exhale as one.