The sound of old furniture at three o’clock in the morning

 

The sound of old furniture at three o’clock in the morning

The clock clears its throat.

It pauses dramatically.

Then, with a hint of frenzy,

it sets the tempo of a waltz,

Then grows silent.

Drip, drip, drip goes the tap, 

smugly saying ‘yeah, I’m better than you‘.

Others take over,

a choir of crazy things,

unoiled, unhinged.

They play their outlaw country classic,

with some improvisatory screaming thrown in. 

Someone rattles a rusty chain.

It is the clock again.

The time is three thirty.

Suddenly, the joy is gone.

The music fades out.

Silence falls

The party is over.

NaPoWriMo Day 5