Mercy

Tepid. No, taut, with a wily whiff of perpetuity.
Charged, I think, with an uncomfortable presence –
or absence – of leadership. Positively ringing
but the note is somewhat thick and wet, as if steeped
in emulsion, which would account for the way
it claws at the back of the tongue, a hand
in a glove puppet, thumb waggling your jaw.
Snug. Improperly buttered. A tad icy
at its extremities, where it’s hitched haphazardly
to the outside street’s slow churning. Cupped
but cupped by a multitude, utterly endorsed
by that same multitude. But sure to fail,
since I detect the stirrings of a familiar stutter
in its engine’s cool rhythm. I wonder, I wonder
would it help to open and shut the windows?