augury doggerel

Thursday, July 18, 2002


It rained hard. People are looking both ways before coming out doors, stepping carefully and watching the air as if it might happen again, might sneak up on them. They want to be ready for it this time. Inside, the bartender and the cook watch bad old television. The bartender's jest, pursing his lips and warbling like a musical saw, has reminded me my father could whistle a fine melody and had a deep lovely singing voice. I whistle like a drafty door and not half as emotively, and my singing voice has wandered up and up through the years to a sad tenor. It's as if I wouldn't compete and had settled for a different register. But that's just the way it came out.


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