One more sip.
"At the stop sign, a man, a young man,
everyone's young these days, walks down
the south side of Glen, arms waving, conducting
his secret song.
That's all that happens.
He turns the corner, red shirt flapping,
high water pants showing white ankles,
legs moving to an inner heat.
The sun beats down.
His head, his red corkscrew curls.
His eyes meet mine.
Nothing else.
Nothing else happens.
I think if I wasn't in this car, if my windows weren't rolled
up, he would say something.
I know he wants to sing out loud.
I know, inside, he's singing.
I wish I knew his name.
I wish I could hear his song.
At a stop sign the other day, I have my windows down.
I hear a bird singing.
That's all that happens, that small thing.
Me with my 1/2 deaf ears over the hum of the engine,
I hear a bird sing.
I'm paying attention.
The car idling at a stop sign, the bird sings in a tree.
I'm actually paying attention.
No radio playing.
No thoughts rattling gray gravel in my head.
I hear a bird.
That's all, a bird I can't even name.
At a stop sign years ago, windows rolled up in the rain,
I hear music.
That's all that happens.
I hear 'Barber's Adagio for Strings.'
I hear those high-pitched screams at the end.
That's all.
The radio station comes through loud and clear.
In the rain, in the car, I stop thinking.
I pay attention.
That's what happens.
That's all.
I hear for once.
I think I hear angels.
I can't be sure.
I hear singing.
Nothing else happens.
And for a minute or so, at the stop sign,
I think I hear something.
I stop thinking.
I stop thinking of my next drink."