Member-only story
Two Chords Missing
The slim chance
Inside the river the earth-tide bellows,
pockmarked with evening hoots.
Two hours till midnight.
The bold owl calls “who, who.”
The lamplight sheds a yellow haze
that dazzles moon-moths from the black sky.
The chances of meeting you are slimmer than thin air.
I hear a song, part blues, part jazz,
and slide into the rhythm.
Somewhere, you tread on cobbled stones and roads.
Along the sidewalk, there is a rough
stream dragging music along its banks — Bessie Smith, Ma, and Clapton, Mississippi John Hurt…
Listen up.
Listen to notes that weep
to the wet-earthed sides.
Listen to wails scuffing the edge.
Scuffing the curb.
The threshold.
The verge.
Listen to the fine strum of two chords missing…
Lost songs are unsung.
We won’t meet,
and night has cast us loose
to beat our wings in the dark.
Bridget Webber writes articles for magazines and websites; she often ghostwrites for professionals who can’t spare the time to pen compositions. She’s written poetry eBooks and is featured in several leading publications.
