I've stared past
fork-strewn dinner plates;
tines pinging like tuning forks,
precise and crystalline:
from scratches on writing pads,
to clacking on fading keyboard tiles,
to taps on smudged touch screens --
thoughts and feelings exiled, martyred
for existence beyond skull and ribs.
my chin bobs
to strains of melodies;
countering the blare of the radio's beats.
No one sees this march to my own drums.