Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Poetry Cavalcade 21: Singers
I have been wary
Of those who know music
It humbled me young
Then pushed me away.
They speak their own language
Shaded and taut
I nod along
But don't understand.
My Mother, an alto,
Is secretly theirs
She snuck off at night
To join with her kind.
And they, those inside
Bathed in warm light
They read their strange writing,
Then know what to sing...
