Mix Tape Poem by Scott J. Shepard

I wish my love were the same as song.
Overhead the electrical hum, like powerlines,
a violin sky, lets love light up each house
across a city's radius from here to your arms
the bookshelf speaker of every heart.
But I am thunder,
as if the kettle drum, relentless, persistent
across a weathered canopy;
a friction from above
pushing lightning to the streets below.
I am this rain
a second sound, meditative.
The wire brush of snares
tropical, excessive
but with room for a morning bird
ever changing the tune
as to not drown out the lover's violin
understanding that love is
and deserves it's time unclouded.
My song is in the beatnik's basement.
All bohemian, or jazz or modern,
but never remains the same in sound.
Yet even I, with hope in all its trialed forms
when the time manages to sit just right
a catchy, pleasant air that comes in strange
or unheard of, audible for once;
I'll know it must mean love has brought some song.
Unusual but unmistaken
overhead, an electric hum.