L'aura del Campo

La Música (music)

La Música

Drums cross the wooden floors,
pine groaning to pounding feet,
the rhythm of clogs, the shuffle of sandals.
The espresso machine provides harmony
for the unburdened whine soaring
from customers ordering —
a brioche, a fluted canelé, a latté
skinny with oat milk and a dash of vanilla.
Hold the tears, hold the drama!

I wear a yellow shirt with a faded ink stain,
the curse of writers not too proud
to wear second hand clothes
or write down emotions overheard
between words unspoken.

Unbroken, invisible, I grip my cup of daily drip
as if it contains some sanity,
as words squiggle across a blank page,
now relieved to be of some use
more than a blotter for stains.

This useless day gleams,
not too hot, not too chill, odd for August,
as the sun peaks through clouds
to gild the drought-yellowed leaves
that catch a breeze, like Lazarus,
hoping to survive autumn
to green again come next spring.

Melodic thoughts bring peace; but,
give way to annoying traffic,
to feet pounding the pavement;
La Música now a cacophony,
dying when a motorcycle screeches its descant,
shattering the moment.

© Kåre Enga (4.agosto.2025)

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