Remembering A Composer Poem by Benjamin Roque

A vice-grip twists off the silver band
of a mason jar
to release the final breath of the deceased
composer's only symphony.
His brother sighs,
sleep is too short a death.

Faces leer from dim second-story windows,
listening
to the melody's slow drift.
A kite turns on the wind.
Sweet plumes of cigar smoke
seem to crystallize, rise like charmed snakes
from dark wickers.
Rainbow oil slicked roads shimmer.

Somebody mutters,
"What doesn't disappear after
so many years of silence? "

No one in his lifetime found a way
through his work to him.
They tasted secrets and heard
knots tied in the bursting shadow
where he sat naked, carving angels
at the tumbledown piano.

Typically theatrical, he'd proclaim
"This is every voice but my own, "
and fall to his knees in the shooting gallery.
"I could sing it for you, " he pleaded,
"but through these holes
you only hear me breathe."