The sad music wasn’t on the radio, of course,
But somewhere at the back of the house,
Where a few blasted and saggy old men
Sat in rickety chairs of their own construction
And spoke in the shattered voices of the tribe.
A few people listened, their faces blue
And beautiful in the hot, smoky darkness.
The men’s long fingers and fat lips danced
like autumn’s dying leaves on the chill winds,
and the music went on until the sudden dawn
surprised them all with its wistful brilliance,
and the women collected their now-quiet men,
wincing into the way that it all continues.
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