From the open door I pass daily
on the Rue des Lombards lined with lilac
bushes, I lean to the sound of a piano;
I pause with curious ears.
Athletic fingers prompt the song to spill
unwrapped to me, circling like a scarf,
holding my thoughts, catching me out of breath.
The mouth of the street swallows me, licking dust
from my yesterday, tempting my newness
to search behind the half open door with
my half open fingers.
…I move away with visions stolen.
Roger Singer 