I added on to my first Ars Poetica. I would like some feedback before Friday’s critique in class.
A guitar string breaks down the hall,
muffled by the crying baby next door
as a window drops two floors under,
sending shards and swears out to the sidewalk.
The guitar string breaks in time with my finger
sliding the switch to OFF
as I gently pat the fuzz of my static stricken hair.
My pats move in rhyme
to the baby’s cries
and the slamming of the complex doors.
And I hear music,
clashing and inharmonic,
as I’ve never heard before.
But it passes,
as all good moments do.
The baby takes breath,
the next wail a new pitch of distress.
The obscenities fade
into the rushing traffic.
The guitar string twang looms
a while longer.
I find a wet spot, and the sliding to ON ushers back the comforts of
The poetry of the morning