It’s just after midnight. Over on So’s
covered porch, Friday’s late diners linger.
Chilly rain continues, streams gently down sloped
asphalt drive and parking lot. My fingers
softly stroke this smooth keyboard, form phrases
in rhymed lines. Barry and the Tamerlanes
wonder what she’s doing tonight.
Places
I’ve never been keep appearing—flat plain
where Snake River cuts through Idaho’s south,
Denver Art Museum where O’Keeffe’s show
is closing. Mathis croons Misty.
I mouth
mute lyrics, respecting neighbors, voice low
as ghost’s whisper if I can’t hold back. Old
songs recall past lovers, or so I’m told.
Roger Armbrust
April 26,
2013
