Off Key.

Esteve, Jean

Sir, I was singing at myself
as a way to break the pace of work. A noon
song it was you overheard, not whispered words
to you. True, I was never good
at carrying a tune
and ideas fly by me like crows
in a murder
of anything laughable, anything giddy. Sir,
lurking in the shadows,
the noise you object to isn't a whimper
neither a psalm.
It's only a ditty aimed like the barrel
of a pistol at my own merry heart.