Listening...

I sit next to my air vent,
Listening to him strum his bass,
I have never seen his face,
But I know the interpreter is masculine,
Full of compassion,
Intent.

Each Sunday evening he entertains me with his interpretations,
Slowly and continually I fall in love with a stranger,
How could he know what chords to play,
When to strum the lowly,
When to pop hi-tones,
When to wait on the silence.

I sit next to my forced breeze,
Enjoying his expression like sugar on the palate,
Never enough,
I press my ear to the cold steel,
Hoping that he would start again,
He doesn't, and I wait.

By Badilisho
http://ibwriting.blogspot.com