The tongue was his barrier.
He spoke not of my language
but one of his home village.
The frustration in communication was
thunderous.
I tried to tell him that he owed me
fifty cents more.
He had bought a bottle of cider
and a box of camels.
In my small shop in the large apple
People call the city.
Rain tapped at the window and
The sky was purple with dusty pillows.
Je ne sais pas!
He said over and over. Some
other things, but mostly those.
Sir, do you have fifty cents more? I asked.
The clock ticked past closing time
My rage swimming.
like the rain outdoors.
My arm bumped the radio on
in attempts to grab a pad and a pen
Time dripping
to write with.
To ask him through symbols.
The song played blaring
I left it on. I wanted to listen to
the sweet chords during my
time of frustration.
He smiled. His eyes lit
up in remembrance.
He knew the song
And knew it well.
He sang it, softly,
Hold me closer tiny dancer…
I smiled. We found a common
voice: the voice of song.
Count the headlights on the highway
I helped him continue.
We sang the rest until the piano
ceased along with the rain.