The same window sticks.
I push hard and sometimes it gives,
lets in a distant sea,
a child’s laughter in the waves.
Mostly I can’t decipher
the songs on the locked baby grand.
Death has stolen their keys.
The metronome still works.
I slide its weight to the end,
watch it pole-vault back and fore
across the chasm between each tock.
The sea rolls closer, the child laughs
louder. Mother, father and sister
sing to him from the shore.
