Cliché abandonment at a bus stop

"Walk with me," she says
The dulling floorboards vibrate
Crests and troughs phase in and out
A doorknob turns halfway through
The neighbor forgot his car keys again

The synchrony continues to the stairs
Cloth polishes the potholed banister
The same doorknob turns, closes, locks
The polishing hand leaps from a cliff
And lands in a safe pocket

Only to be penetrated by water
Aliquots preserved in hexagons
Crushed by boots and paws and tires
Disrupted crystals breaking down
Into black, as if stains are a punishment

This isn't the city that never sleeps
Today is Sunday, sleepday
Spend time with family day, what day?
Today is Sunday, flyday, leaveday
Play that song from Armageddon day

Tread marks on paper, washed out
With more crystal hexagons turning into ink
Letters don't write themselves, usually
And if they do, the ink bottle tips
To mock the effort and hide its existence.

I've been watching too many sappy romances lately, so please bear with me

My cardiac muscles are pumping
Like an overworked steamship
Waiting for its last voyage
In an English coast, tasting the
Coal covered brine of dead
Marine life and lost shoes.

Dialed your home again, except for
The final number, hoping that
An interruption will take place
Before I hit 9, a lousy excuse
For a silly fear of conversation.

Press 9, now press talk, but
Ten sewing machines crisscross
My fingers with stitches, my guitar
Strings for threads, composing
Ballads across my skin.

Unfold my macbook, and you're
There, listening to the news
You tell me about the weather
And how you're listening to
the winds, waiting for her.