the singer

Reads: 155  | Likes: 6  | Shelves: 1  | Comments: 3

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: December 29, 2018

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Submitted: December 29, 2018

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they still want songs
when you want to say
you think your marriage
was a failure
and there isn't enough
fresh air
left in April
to fill up your room

all through winter
this place smelled
of paperbacks
and cinnamon

you're wondering why
these things seem to
disconnect
as you run a row of 
packing tape
over a cardboard box
marked
office stuff

we got a good lamp for free
together just after Halloween
from a moving sale in Westby
neither of us wants it now
as it sits on the curb
dumb and crooked
under the sun

2.
for the singer
there is only the stage
waiting like a deaf island now

in the thin apron
of theatre light
you pretend to be
relevant
you pretend

from eyes and faces
lost in the dark
there is the rush
of stumbled applause
intent
on finding home

this ends
like a book
closing
when you want it to be
like a fire
burning down

it is the strangest good-bye

someone said to you once "this
is what it's all about"
your memory of that
makes you feel nothing
if not alone

3.
you like to think
you know things

the next morning
a ceiling of clouds
rolls along slowly over
the tops of the trees and 
the dew refuses to lift

it is a half morning
between worlds

the bird stays close to his branch
the dog is wet on the belly and
looking in
through the screen door

you want to be 
an old man

when the rain comes
everything is reaching

4.
the piano listens for fingers
as it sleeps
it has made
the corner of the room
need

you come to it
as if being led inside
a mirror

one more time
wanting
the sound
to make you invisible

 

 


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