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Friday, January 4, 2013

Poem of the Week: Sunday Music, David Chorlton

In his blue trim shirt
with silver buttons
and a buckle shining
at his waist
the guitar player tilts
back his hat
and begins to strum
behind his friend
who sways with an accordion
along the aisle between
the tables in the Mexican
restaurant early Sunday
evening when the tips
are sparse as mercy
from the sun
and the cooling system
offers sanctuary
from a summer that won’t end.
They play requests
and always add
a little in a minor key
that comes from far away.
There’s a polka
and a ballad and
an undocumented solo
and although the place
is almost empty
the music stays on
while the lights above
the tables are switched off
and sound becomes
a compass in the dark
pointing south.

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