Silas Thorne's Journal

There's four fine people with songs in their chests:

The first man, on the stairs,
open-throats a Spanish hymn,
pacing it back and forth to the roof
but wishing it further.

The second man stumbles,
blues chords tangling in a white beard.
With his arms down low,
he's looking for the key to the storeroom.

The third fine person has long legs
and a purple dress,
and she hums past a song
as I let out my breath.