She sat each evening listening to her
dead husband play the saxophone on the
radio. An old Motorola AM in a golden
Sometimes he would play
the bagpipes, other nights a few Mozart
chords. She liked to hum along with those.
Then, there were evenings when he never
came voiced from the dead airwaves which
made her sad as a yellow jacket’s nest chilled
by an autumn frost.
Other lost voices would take his place:
Nazi propaganda from WW II refusing to
believe Berlin’s fall.
The Andrews Sisters & “Coca Cola.”
Big band & swing.
Hemingway narrating The Old Man and the Sea.
Chilled cacophonies conjugating a life.
The fire always helped, that & a cashmere sweater,
but just one more time god grant “Amazing Grace.”