hammond spinet in the living room
their
aged voices,
infused
with the easy musicality
of the caribbean,
and my
own white boy
pseudo-gospel playing
still
ringing in my ears,
my
fingers and palms
still
feeling the bone dry press
of their
old, calloused hands,
i let the mostly inexplicable tears
trail
down my face,
afraid to
wipe my eyes,
experience
teaching me
soot from
the decrepit
living
room organ
i half resuscitated
would
blind me
far more
than my own weeping.
alanis crooned over the car stereo
over her
broken heart,
and try
though i might
i could not dispel the image
of the
old man who had been
crawling
around on the floor with me
as we
dismantled his treasure,
watching
my every move,
asking
the same questions again and again.
i could not vanquish that vision
of
vanishing intelligence
as he
looked pleadingly
towards
his wife for approval
the way a
child might look to a parent,
''it's alright,
isn't it?"
a half
dozen earnest attempts to dissuade them
laced
with the promise of a newer, better organ
all
returned void,
''sometimes,
you know,
it isn't
about the money, young man''
she said,
but she looked at her husband
the way jesus must have looked
at mary magdeline.
' yes,
ma'am, I agree"
aml
west 58th
23. january, 2006