my maddening tipping point
all I hear are echoes anymore
echoes from anything making a sound
a blender in the kitchen
going round and round
its motor never quite leaving my mind
mixed in with machine guns going
rat-a-tat-tat
competing with armies of lawn mowers
and battalions of snow blowers
while little bumblebees buzz around
alongside birds of every nation singing their songs
echoes of bed sheets entangled around
myself and a young woman I once knew
echoes of clock towers turning back time
with chimes ringing backwards
bringing forth a new century
that would eventually become
my maddening tipping point
august two thousand fifteen
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