I.
What’s that song? he asks, as a mandolin waltzes
“Tennessee Waltz,” carries a tune once carried
by a man named Pee Wee King, written by him
and Redd Stewart on a matchbox on the road
to the Grande Ole Opry. His question is likely
another. Ears hear differently
II.
than minds do. I’ve always imagined
the song composed by a woman,
whose heart is answering
a betrayal, as songs often do, as if
begotten
in silence, until a person calls upon them.
Can you convict a melody? is what I ask,
III.
myself
parched of song, longing
for understanding. Must we pick up
our instruments, fingers clean
of dangerous residues? I ask/tell him,
It’s that song—“I remember
IV.
the night and the Tennessee Waltz,”
but his face shows no recognition,
appears like betrayals do, cold
as wood, speaking to nothing
in my voice, taking nothing
of my question as an answer.
Burlesque Press 