SUBSCRIBE OR FOLLOW

May 012010
 

by
Benjamin X Wallace


 

“Mi querido.”
She said, over my shoulder,
“We’ll meet again someday.”

I gave her one of my halfway grins,
I knew what she meant, but that’s our story.

I put the blues harp to my lips and blew a sorry tune,
she sang along as always and we held the meagre audience.

We showed them, rather, made them listen to,
our story, albeit a short one,
how once we were, then were not.

All this was a long time ago,
the same voice whispered in my ear
“Hey, Limey, don’t I know your name?”

Another halfway grin and I shrugged,
who’d have thought I was that memorable,
but she, haaa, her with the voice.

I’d become withdrawn, pulled out of gigs,
people stopped me in the street,
told me to play my harp.

I don’t know what they do with their lives,
but like the poet man says,
I keep on keeping on.

There she was again, as I shuffled down the avenue,
stood on the corner, waiting for a cab.

She hailed me down instead, told me she’d missed me,
told me a lot of things, over a hotel room dinner.

Tasted like hell, like anticipation,
soon we replaced the plates.

She tasted like the cheap wine,
but I didn’t care.

Muttering something underneath my breath,
we fell into the hotel bed.

Clean white linen, clean peach skin,
we wrote on each other’s souls.

We had a revolution that night,
we changed whole regimes,
and we won the war without arms.

I picked up the harp again,
that very morning.

I played to her; she sang to me,
the crisp morning air reverberated
sonorously with our song,
again and again.