Mice sing inside the walls if you let them.
I had my very own Barry Manilow living right there in the cupboard. 

Bees remember faces, which explains summer ’97–
the hum of the hive in my throat. 

Presently my sobbing is less mouth-shaped 
more “O shit— “

like a baby bird flew song first under
my front tire.
I heard the melody crack before
the body did. 

I say, I only ever cry at funerals and other
black tie events:
ritual mourning, affirmation. 

I say, yes, Lord, there is a bomb.
Pull the air out the walls.
Let the house learn deep breathing. 

The pipes argue; it sounds like pennies and apologies.

The smoke detectors practice being wrong at exactly 3:07 a.m. 

& you hear me stand on a blue suede
chair, eyes as dark as a pipe-organ,

pushing reset button, muttering: reset, reset
— mother fucker, reset. 

Matt Wunsch is a husband, father, and educator. He graduated from Salve Regina University with an MFA in poetry. His family is listening to punk rock right now.