The T-shirt tag that I forgot to cut out. The nice wool sweater I bought that feels like burlap. The jeans that hug my calves a little too tight.

The scrape of silverware in the sink. The hand full of sludge as I open the drain. The clank of dishes as I line them up in the washer.

The alarm in the boiler room of the complex, skimming the surface of audibility through the bedroom wall.

Smacking lips. Dry mouths. The unexpected brush of a loved one’s fingers (I’m sorry).

But hey, there’s also music. So it’s not so bad.

I hereby declare the ineffable. I proudly exclaim the nonsensical. I smell what is seen, and it sounds like it tastes. I’ll write it in prose that is lyrical.

It’s as plain as the sock that I wear on my head, or the shoes I put on before going to bed. It’s an optional edict, for better and worse. It’s ice cream for dinner and steak for dessert.

Now, stand up and bow! I’m a king made to serve! I’ll rule with submission! Straight on we shall swerve!

Also the end won’t rhyme.