I either need a stage in my closet
or an arena of waving shirtsleeves,
silent and humanoid.
This will do too, chords resonating in the vacuum
of my sparse living room, muddling
clumsy fingers on smudgy keys.
In the bleachers, a fluid shadow audience, flickering
in and out of fantasies like projector light
on a whitewashed drive-in screen.
Wind too strong, channeling through
my lungs, stampeding through my throat,
trampling me flat, sometimes.
When keys turn in the door like credits rolling,
the wind slows to a calm, controlled breeze
and soon stills to silence.
I totally had this written yesterday, but Blogger was doing some kind of maintenance and wouldn't let me post it. Today's poem is still coming!
Photo by Zoran Miljkovic Joe
What do you like to do when you have the house to yourself?