Eight Count

My Macbook Air sits expectant

on the carpet, irrelevant

like our Freddy’s concretes that turn

into lumpy, syrupy milk,

both forgotten as we sway back

and forth. The creaking floor keeps time.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven

eight months it’s been, and as I tuck

my head beneath your chin, I’m home.

So sway with me, my darling,

Swing with me, my love,

Through all the dips and twirls

and confusions to decode      

till it’s our bones that creak

to keep time.