today.”
What a pleasant ensemble
of sweet little words
and soft syllables
painted with the curvaceous strokes
of a brush.
Every note; a smile,
on a quaint piece of wood.
Give it to her as a gift,
as medicine, a treatment, a trial.
Like it’s a cure.
Give it to her
because she hasn’t been happy,
not for a while.
And what are you supposed
to say?
“Honey, I’m sorry.”
couldn't stop the rain.
No words could have been said
to save a heart
that’s been broken.
It’s not salt in her lungs,
not an answered cry.
Just a piece of wood,
painted with the lies
that live in lines.
Imagine it is a needle and thread,
glue, stitches, staples.
Give it a false identity,
breathe some air into it
and call it life.
Pretend it is unlabored inspiration,
a free laugh, a paved voice,
a transplant.