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I can feel the beat.
You walking through the door.
Me listening at the door.
The slightly humid room you would like to escape from.
The air conditioning kicks on with a sputter
as you turn it down
one degree at a time
like a safecracker.
The shirts folded where you left them:
in the basket
and the carrots simmering in butter.
Where did you come from today?
The rugs under your chair
I’ve never seen and the music
I turn on in the evening.
The pots I put away while you fold
paper bags and wonder where
to put them.
The boiling water and the remote control
‘s silent adjustments.
The jacket on the chair, both chairs
and the shoes by the door.
The knife against the plate,
ice falling on the floor.
It broke into multiple pieces before you could catch it.
The paint flaking along the windowsill
where the tree branch taps every November
to let you know that Winter is near.
Your teakettle with the ivy decoration
and your laugh during Futurama.
A Doritos bag, when you want to be healthy
and a deep sigh when you do not.
The cat scratching and summer beatles
at the doors and windows.
The doorbell and the ice cream truck
‘s bell and the oven
letting me know the biscuits,
the cookies,
the cake,
the chicken
is done.
Refrigerator in B-flat
and the consternation of all our electronic devices.
Hail in Summer and rain in Spring and
each neighbor saying hello in the way they know how.
Reminders spoken about
swim lessons,
thawed meat,
bath times,
and clean clothes.
The music you sing in the morning
mainly to yourself.
Popcorn on Friday,
pancakes on Sunday.
Gathering coats, hats, purses, and bags to leave for the day.
Paper towels torn from their mates
while the cat watches.
Birds through the back window and the
squash growing thick by their nest.
That is not my noise,
that is my beat.

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