Caroline lays upon the couch, eyes closed,
the wall of warm noise in her headphones.
It’s night, and the stars and the city shines.
Alone, the music embraces, soothes, quiets her.
Overlapping guitars and that angel voice,
that mournful woman, haunted and holy.
A cocoon of sound and thunder, the words
half heard and wholly felt, taking her to the sky.
The night is warm, her heart is full of love,
and she dreams again, for the first time in so long.
That mournful woman, calling back something lost,
but maybe in calling it back, it can be made whole again.
Maybe Caroline can be whole again.
James Agee Park, as the sun comes up,
a truthful ballad chewed out of a
bubble gum queen, disaffected conformist,
playing on my earbuds, soothing my undeath.
Even a program of safe rebellion knows
heartache and abandonment, the emptiness
of knowing even those who love you the most
cannot be turned to, cannot stay awake one single hour.
The sun is sweetest at first light, the world still
half-velvet and welcoming, and it can fool you,
as that bubblegum balllad fades out, ringing your tears
like bells, that there is still magic in this worn out life.
The sun comes. I put up earbuds and mp3 player,
and face the shifting shoals and sucking sands,
and all the devil I feed and wish I could starve out.
The day, that loses me in the crowd, in August sun.