Poem: “The Old Grande”

The same old you, arguing with

her. One moment gargling

window sealed whiskey,

another moment jowls flap and

spit escapes in

slow motion to

midnight Rachmaninov.

She’ll never say, but that’s when it hurts

her the worst. She prefers Chopin and

tea or Mozart and toast. The

whole house can hear

you do it, the moans escape

her in pleasure and discomfort.

Triads remind  her of your childhood:

summer jobs, cars, Lorraine.

Major keys recollect kiddy pool baptisms,

minor the first foreign film you

watched with Pastor Gary.

She’s glad you’ve come home to stay

after seasoned travel, but wains in

concern for when you’ll leave, if you

leave. What was Portland like?

And Canada? When did you start wearing a

leather jacket? Drink up,

go into the night till your forehead

rests on her middle C.

She’ll be there when you wake.

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