Again Poem by Joe Bisicchia

Shall set, and then this sun soon shall rise again as if to breathe. Shall rise in the east
soon to the west, so soon to set. Again and again, infinity simply said. And in all of this,
where shall we be so to see?

Perhaps we thought his piano playing would never end. We had listened to it many sunsets and then the next afternoon into night it would begin again.

Now, as he lifelessly sits here on the porch swing, waiting the long wait for the undertaker to take him away, we work hard our hands before rigor mortis can set in, propping up his stubbled chin. After all, we want his mouth proper for his waiting coffin. Uncle Sal had been a war hero. Pinned with devastating shell shock and subsequent medals that he hid inside his piano. Dying now in his old age after a life of so much song, often so loud and discordant, yet vibrant despite mental illness, his upright inside nearby seems now very far, now very silent. Our hands are feeling for the diminishing warmth of his pearly keys.

Listen.

Yet, no need to see. Robins. Somewhere out there in the beam. We somehow sense the chord of peace even beyond the birds now softly singing to the sunset. Shall set, and then this sun soon shall rise again. Again and again, infinity simply said. So much song, and vibrant.


Published in Fourth & Sycamore,2017