Opera singer

The Opera Singer

No auditorium.
Her stage a city bridge,
her backdrop little souvenir stalls
and the green flow of the water.
Lit by an autumn setting sun
she sings, as tourists saunter past,
and fills the evening air
with notes so pure she draws them in
like candles to an altar.

So diminutive.
Inside a faded coat
her body barely showing movement
as she breathes between each stanza.
Backed by an orchestra on tape
her voice is seamless harmony,
the sound so light and clear
that passers by, her audience,
just can't ignore her opera.

Such ability.
She sees it in their eyes,
the same uncomprehending question,
what's she doing by the river?
Trapped by the perfect sound they hear
the sight remains a mystery,
she's too good to be there;
she should be on a proper stage
where people could applaud her.

Soon finished.
Her fifteen-minute spell
is broken by the music ending,
she looks happy with their hunger.
Clapped by the small admiring crowd
she bows to coins thrown at her feet,
the people disappear;
their fleeting praise enough for her
ephemeral theatre.