La Música

The local boulangerie sings in melodies and harmonies, whines in descants of cacophony.

La Música

         written at Le Petit, Missoula

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 unspoken words.

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 sun peaks through clouds
to gild the drought-yellowed leaves
that catch a breeze, hoping,
like Lazarus, to survive autumn,
to green again come next spring.

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

© Kåre Enga (4.agosto.2025)

32 lines

original in "La Música (music)"