Form: Prose Poem
Thinking about it leaves a bad taste in the mouth. That awkwardness of emotion seeing a guitar bobbing up and down on the sea. The strings like a bad parody of folk music, of nasal voices singing around a fire before electrics took over. A grotesque image of Art Deco losing its grace. A brief history of music floating away. It’s going somewhere, but where did it come from. Whose were the agile fingers that gave wood and strings voice? Memories wander across the sea air. A Spanish restaurant from long ago, an old man playing ‘Spanish Eyes’ as I fell under your spell. For an infinite moment, everything floated on music, everything from tables and chairs, plates and glasses, and you and I – floating on music. Lost in the fragility of time. Time brought its silence. The music died as we went our separate ways.