String

At work in the attic chaotic
in time I didn’t mind so much
sifting spools and rusty needles
to find the thread and it didn’t irk
to keep coming up with colored yarns
or worse, dental floss
for her stringed instrument, something
between a sitar and an upright piano
with its cryptic carvings
of our assignations on the edgy terrace,
off-limits, our secret in plain sight,
illicit yet open to the air,
balconies, catwalks, weather
and walls as unfinished as life.
Also where I kept my rack of lost hats.

We showed off the staples on our throats.
We rowed our little boats
past the immersion baptism in the ballroom
but couldn’t get very far from school
or keep track of the way back
but I flew that little kite, a white diamond,
a smiling square, as high as I could
until I came to the end
of the tangled string.

Thought partners may also be thought leaders
though generally they are not, I don’t think.