Near Harmony

John Abbott

The highway is another kind of music;
Steady hiss of tires, occasional cigarettes flicked out of windows, quick horn blasts.
You say it reminds you of a record needle
And the sound of years passing
Something you fell asleep to as a child
The album ending but the needle still spinning
You'd wake, debating whether to cross 
The room, bare feet on the cold oak floor
Or stay in bed 
Imagining or dreaming 
How the melody will continue
And where it should end.
Your mother's footsteps coming 
To stop the record, a natural sound
Urgent though
Like the need to shut our apartment window
When neighbors are fighting
Their anger strangely musical, staccato bursts of breaking glass, 
Crescendos,
Interludes of silence,
And a man's legato pleas interrupted 
By you
Looking around at the end of another day—ashtrays spilled or overflowing, 
dust thick on the piano keys, a cocktail glass sweating into the walnut coffee table—
And saying, "Baby, we've got a long way to go."