The withheld breath
of the slightly malfunctioning freezer's
distant bronze gamelan
with the subdued seventy-third year's
cardiac thumps
within the confines of my damp ribcage,
constitute,
in the morning haze
of my white noise tinnitus soundscape,
a suspended, spine-tingling precipitation,
”good to the last drop,
just like Maxwell House Coffee”
with some banging Bukka White blues
on as southern porch