Some evenings, it’s the Tejano thump from a Chevy
Tricked-out, all lowdown & shit, slow slinking up

Our dead tree street, reverberating the 120 bpm
Into our thin-walled fifties bungalow. Other times

It fades in & out on autumn breezes from marching
Band practice at the neighborhood high school, bass

Drums pounding one & three, high snares rattling
As if primitive wind chimes made of baby bones.

But mostly, it pulses softly in the background –
The dull headache throb, the paper cut blood drip,

The great horned owl at midnight, his who-who-ing
Pumping inside my chest like a stranger’s organ.