August 19, 2016


I try to imagine
some artsy melody
softly playing
behind my life,
a Chopin sonata,
or any aching tune
vaguely similar to Satie,
making me seem
like a dreamier person
than I really am,
as if I were the star
in a vintage art house film,
my life somehow
touched by a tragedy
left beautifully unresolved
as the credits rolled,
the audience shuffling
toward the exits.
But I know the rest is silence,
and I could not make out
the notes anyway,
only barely imagine
the left hand pounding
on the door of my life,
the right racing
up the keyboard,
escaping its prison
in the score.