"maus duet" words by Samantha Vacca

24

It is barely
eleven,
and I’m already
Three
coffees
deep
into the next hand.

[oh eloquent
and overflowing goblet of
prosperity,
why do I dwell
on your
unavoidable
evaporation?]

Never mind this
banter, I will
let Coltrane
confirm the
dwindling meniscus
of reality,
precisely at
Fifteen sips past
the hour.

Along the way,
stops and
stations
are elementary
when
unveiling
the curtain
to reveal
proverbial
resolution.
The rooster
squanders
sharp Sixteenths
from the
prodigal
sun,
floundering
my anticipatory
escape.

Alas,
when my
dreams
have been
guillotined
and these
futile, trembling
limbs are
adhered
to climb atop
my own wedding cake—
it is time for a nap.