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on your
birthday (for Laura)
the soapbox is silent, scorched
of ideas. I am not a hero, but
still I weep for special things. where
there is art, there is breath; where we
walk lies mountains of solitude.
we joke of apples and trees,
birds,
bees, flippancy. we toast the
sounds that tremor like freedom amidst
the empty halls, walls are broken down.
and still we listen.
we listen.
behind the piano bar sits proof
of greater things.
patios of prudence, licks and kisses mark the day.
lyric upon lyric we wake in
smoky gray gossip
of pending nights where music and music-maker
play queen, to a room full of thirsty souls.
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