A story poem this week.
MOZART
The photograph is monochrome
and taken years ago at home:
where home was then, although not now.
It doesn’t matter anyhow.
What matters is the image there:
a teenage girl with long dark hair,
unsmiling with, upon her arm,
a parakeet, her lucky charm,
named Mozart. How she loved that bird.
We joked, at times, that she preferred
her Mozart to the rest of us.
No matter: it was ever thus.
His wings were clipped: a bird earthbound,
he always seemed to be around
He lives now with our brother, Tim,
who tolerates but dislikes him
for he associates Mozart
with that thing which sets us apart.
Her early death brought misery
to Tim and me, her parents … she
stepped off a ledge, ten stories high,
but, like poor Mozart, could not fly.
For verse of a different kind, why not visit: https://www.facebook.com/richard.fleming.92102564/
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