though the crickets
are mute tonight
the absence
of their music
still keeps time
in my kitchen
where the dishes
have just been done.
it is as
if their little
legs,
still arch and slice
through the darkness
and sing their
sharp summer song
as the clean
white plates begin
to dry
in the rack
by the sink.
the guitar
was like your
second tongue
a sad
accompaniment
to your
self-destructive
muse
those songs
you played me
on the homemade tape
where, in some way,
a lyrical foreshadow
to all
that follow.
tell me:
are you happy now
now that you are
singing in the clouds
the way you do
and listening
to the rock
and the punk
and the doo wop
singers slinging
their a capella
street corner
sounds
are you still pretending
you don't like
a single note?
is it really heaven
there,
to hear
a song you love
then wait for the
tiny intermission
between the bands
just enough time
to think and joke
and maybe make
some small talk
with a group of friends
before the final act?
if i wanted to
i could listen
to the sermon
again during
the next service
take notes on
the structure
consider the theme
or find some
mnemonic device
clever enough
to internalize
the strategies
he said might
lead to redemption.
instead I focus
on exactly how
his voice intoned
the words
how his perspiration
lit up the face mic
and i ask
not how my soul
might be saved
but what are
the three things
i need to know
to command a room
just so.
