Through distant waves of consciousness,
I could hear the bagpipes.
I strained to identify the tune:
Something familiar, but not quite
When Malcolm was five,
he longed to play the pipes,
and listened blissfully to recordings
of pipe and drum corps.
At twenty-five, it seems doubtful
he’s returned to this youthful passion.
And still I hear the droning buzz
through bleary wakening,
until with a click,
he turns his razor off.