The day the two old men
were trading notes on Symphony No. 40
in the back room of the record store,
Michael came home unenlightened
wanting only to hear
some howling-city
blues. Gin-blitzed,
two dollars short
for a vinyl Muddy Waters
from the Mississippi Delta,
and a new season began for us
a love affair rejived. Back
to the bridge. For me
it was the first time
I ever heard the bass so fierce
turn table lava: the slide
guitar like an enamel river
and our hazy glances
a few notes heavier:
We hung on every riff
the dust-caked needle tracking.
Mozart and Austria laughed in the far distance
while we swayed dionysian
to Memphis Slim piano, Dixon bass
thrumming new roads
for Hendrix, Cray and Clapton.
It was the first time between us,
when all silence was reduced to listening.
About the AuthorCK Tower editor of Conspire, and poetry editor for Recursive Angel, resides in Lansing, Michigan, and attends Michigan State University, where she is continuing her studies in literature and creative writing. CK is continually working to further excellence in Internet publishing, by producing useful, high-quality electronic mediums for writers and patrons of the literary arts.
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