Sunday, August 29, 2021

Crazy at Sunset

Pink at the end of something,
What it is is far less clear than the pink,
As diaphanous as it appears.

Yet there was that talk
On the porch this morning
About the room you shared with your sister
And all of the rooms she strayed to
And tried not to leave.

And now her disembodied voice
Comes through an old Memorex recorder 
You pulled from your drawer
To dictate some notes.

And now I hear you sing
A song by Patsy Cline
From before I was born.