Charlie walks on water
Notes like color float one by one out of the window of his little house.
And I walk by, a little weary from the day, on my way to another obliga... neighbor, to see the new baby.
i—i---i—question who I am when I pass, trip over the sound and fall flat on my face and leave a little blood in his snow and I wish I could sink down and just listen.
Should I run home; it’s never easy anyway- to get him out. To bang doors and wake him from his world.
I don’t give up my exercise, to tear muscle, break it down before it can be built.
I get up from the cold ground somehow comfortable when there’s melody and I knock and I can feel it fist to wood but it’s silent with the noise inside and I have to wave through the window like a wild woman who isn’t a little scared of what she's doing. What am I doing?
It shakes me a bit, but I skip home, high with conversation on my lips.
Little angels, little devils nibbling my ears, discovering buzzing noise alive with even paintings of naked women. Magic tricks and consciousness and the drawing of the deserts or daughters or The Dead. The moon and music and the science of chocolate’s taste in my mouth and ah, pictures of a dinner.
And I have forgotten my direction.
Another visitor rocks the baby while I wait my turn-say I’m sorry and snicker-got lost on my way across the street. “I stopped to talk with Charlie next door, you know him?”
Oh yes, he plays that guitar all hours of the day.