the old record grooves have worn away with the last
of chopin's greatest hits.
how we used to sing words to his wordless works,
how we tainted them...

branded them our own.

and the ice cream man in his ice cream truck
would interrupt our operatic showdown
with showtunes of his own
and we'd run outside to hear him play
forgetting our money to pay him
inside, and we'd miss the opportune time
to ask him for an encore
that we could eat.

you'd take me by the hand
(though i'd rather it was an ice cream cone)
and tell me,"next time, we'll get him."
and i'd smile
(though i can't remember if it was the thought of the ice cream cone
or the thought of you that did it).

and we'd head inside and peel potatoes
and sing to the beatles
or watch them on t.v.
and wonder why mom and pop liked them so much
because they had bad hair.

so i sit here, still, with a desk full of papers
a calculator, gum, and a box of paperclips
i've lost 9 pens and an eraser today
and the only song i sing, i sing in my head
to the tune of elevator music.

i miss your hand (and the ice cream cones)
and i miss our chopin, and bad hair.
i miss the 5¢ bubble gum that we never ate
but sold to the school yard bullies for 20¢ each
(we fed the world that day).
i miss a lot of things that we couldn't keep...

but most of all

i miss the way things never were...or ever have been, here.

--
It's been a while...

Glad to see some new faces around here. "Hey"s and "hi"s to the oldies and the newbies!

V.V.,
Leah