They play music

They play music

In the recreation room,

There is an upright piano

Which an old woman with blue hair

And crooked fingers

Sometimes plays,

As well as an ancient, wooden stereogram

With a stack of old records

Covered in fingerprints.

He struggled with the cruelty of it,

The wonder of it,

The laughter somehow found

In the weave of nostalgia.

Tears more easily shed

To old songs, remembered

From long ago,

Familiar words choked back

Until the chorus.

The wealth of harmony

As partial strangers sang as one,

Old souls connecting

In release.

He tries not to think of dancing

Being imprisoned in a chair can do that

To a person.

He will never touch a woman's waist

Feel the warmth of her forehead on his chest

Breathe the sweetness of her scent

Be intoxicated by her presence

Drunk with happiness

For no reason,

Other than her just being there.

All that exists are the songs

Not all of them sad

But all are well remembered

Through the journey of days.

Back when he was young,

As bold as a newfound love

Caught up

In the swell of a refrain,

An exquisite moment

Its impact painfully precise.

He leans into it,

Bracing,

And in reaching out

Falls into the space between himself

And the world beyond

Another time,

More then than now

When he stood tall

By her side.

He wonders at her glide

An angel in red shoes

And when he thinks about her,

He finds that he is gliding too.