Chanteuse
A handful of stolen glances
slipped into my pocket
with a light touch deft
as a silent April spider
passing through sunlight
poured over cold plats of tile
in my morning shower
Lucinda Williams
a tune I hadn’t heard
spun like beaded silk
from the PA system
over the heads of theater goers
each and every one of us
packed upright into time
worn egg crate cases
gilded murmuring ornaments
fallen under a decorous spell
between acts
one and two
the words,
you knew them by heart,
that fragile coltish organ
beating in your chest
clenched in your throat
groaning under the weight
of all those gathering
syllables sung in silence
from the back of the house
to the tears and applause
we surely would have showered
upon you
had only we known
that high up
on the wall suspended
in your web of patience,
you sang sweetly
a song for your supper.
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