I’ve never heard of a person with such a keen ear for music
Barbara was a mezzo-soprano who never sung in public
like a miff in a itinerant down pour
she cried for me on special occasions
not during Holidays
but on self designated magical times
usually during noon day
in her basement
which was filed with fine silverware
musty carpet and bellowing thumps
pronounced by baby earthquakes
I’d never liken a cry to singing
but Barbara seemed to combine the two emotions together
like a spider weaving a web
or a lioness creeping behind African brush
waiting with lust for prey
what’s rather strange nowadays
ten years after Barbara’s death
is how I remember her
in my basement
which is filled with gray walls
and fancy white marble flooring
pleasant scents
laughing
cigar smoking
and casual conversation with casual people
with no sounds of bellowing thumps
no music
instrumental
vocal
or otherwise
though frequently
my eyes water
in remembrance
of thee
Barbara
Filed under Poetry
