Poem: Somewhere, Violins

Somewhere, Violins

Around me is the anonymous chaos of my local diner.
Voices. Laughter. Broken hearts. Plans. Politics.
Now and then, someone stops by my table –
a brief chat. A snippet of news. A need for prayer
and then I are left alone.

Or so it seems. An old man at his table,
looking into space, fingers on a keyboard
as he types. Well thought of. A bit odd.
Inward looking in a public place.

There are violins. Only in my head perhaps,
but violins, a romantic tango, only the two of us,
and you the only one who can dance. Still,
the music plays in my head and there is passion
and I am suddenly less old, less odd.

I wonder at times who notices these moments;
if it shows on my face when I am out and about
and staring into the beyond and thinking about you.
as I sip my coffee. Likely not.
People see what they expect to see.

So, I write it down. So when I am dead and ash
someone perhaps, in a box of pictures and poems
will find these words and for a moment,
look at me differently. More true.
Never quite one thing. Never quite the other.
Perhaps they will hear violins.

About this poem

I do stare into space all the time. I am neither fish nor fowl in this life I lead. I am more in love than is seemly for a man my age. Most of us have more layers than show.

The picture was taken at the Frontier Culture Museum in Staunton, Virginia.



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