Crane

Your heart happens to be racing like mine,

slowly, from a distance,

up on the crane of your constructions,

your flashing light synchronizes

with the music in my head phones,

 

It beeps red, then black, then red again,

moving chromatically with a bass drum,

our Morse code without a message,

 

The outline of your metallic skin in the shadow,

your neck arching in place,

It waits for the day like a stone gargoyle's night,

waiting for an earth covered glove to shift it to life,

A purpose to fill its time,

 

But its wheels are stuck in the mud,

The coffee is half empty, cold and bitter,

a wind breezes past its control board,

trying to move the machine into action,

it stares down the trench of an unfinished basement,

Idly hanging its head by the the track-filled puddles,

A moisture from the night building in its gears,

lying dormant with its creation,

 

this wind becomes too strong for me,

I pack my bags and leave my cup on the table,

I head inside the shop and sit by the fireplace, sweating,

The song changes and we are no longer in rhythm with one another.