a sonnet on a cold day

sometimes there’s talking after the song is recorded
sometimes there’s breath after the smoke’s all out
the old man’s blinks were intentional but discordant
the young girl’s teapot had a handle, a spout

there was building and building, a determined new start
there was digging and digging for the fossils below
the old man was balding, gone was his part
the young girl matched her tights to her bow

the postcards were burned, the letters obsolete
the emails begged for the clicked resend
the old man swore off his hands, cursed his feet
the young girl murdered her imaginary friend

a thousand hands in the air, a thousand aches to be involved

all the specifics became generic, all the ages dissolved