His Tick, Ticks

Amidst inquisitional questioning,
and soft sobs, “Are you going to retire?”
No retirement, just thoughts.
Restoration only comes
after the tearing apart.

His tick, ticks, nick, nicks
cause heartstrings to sing.
Round buttons, noir and plasticine
remind me of how his buttons ought to be.

His tick, ticks and nick, nicks
mar the pale skin of an apparition, lover.
He continues to trip.
He wavers a bit– his own violent trick.