Listed

Listed

Late, late at night, in and old, old house

He plays his guitar and sings deep into the walls

And I sit by the window, up high at the top of the house

Over the trees

And over the town

And over the litter and dog crap

But mostly over an old life

Looking down on everything that is and was

And he sings Simon and Cohen

As we muddle through our separate transition

I am an island `til he finds his shore

And he….he is what he is— for now.

He jams his cigarette between E and A

Firm, abridging the second top fret

Because it’s convenient— or cool

And he’s seen somebody do it in a film,

at a gig maybe

And I smile

At his pretension,

But he’s right, it’s cool.

He’s reinventing, building a new person

On an existing frame

Without a clue of what he’s supposed to do

In his tight shirts and skinny jeans

While I’m returning, to who I was before

But we rub along

We’re into Magellan—

With red tones.

And Gauguin—with earth tones—kind of

Are the figures too crudely drawn?

He smiles at me over the neck of his guitar and loses a lyric,

and plays it in, and goes for it again and gets it

And I get him—I think.

So I think about happiness

As he sings of love, and loss and travelling.

 I sip a red, that’s inexcusable for three swallows.

And then gets better,

And then gets good

I wonder…

If a room can be happy

And I smile as I watch

His song seep into the walls

His fingers pick, light

Moving dissolute and profligate across the strings.

Between the strings.

Over the strings.

Across the strings.

And the room fills and swells

With the music

And it coats the plaster

To sink

Into the walls

Of the listed building

And make the room happy

Forever

`Til he is gone…

But the room smiles on.