|
| |
clara
clara
down at the fourth street pub and grill
most folks sat around the bar
while one played to her hearts content
wishing to someday become a star
clara tinkered on her beat-up steinway
with whiskey glasses neatly stacked
as her fingers found the waiting keys
she poured out her soul where talent lacked
alternating softly between sharps and flats
ebony and ivory and nothing between
tears steadily fell into her latest glass
dreams and visions not as they seemed
stains of soured whiskey touched the rim
where red lipstick dried like her empty kiss
she tickled the keys with a sad love song
but the smooth ivory bars were much too stiff
numb fingers stopped her cold on one song
she knew there was nothing more to say
so clara stood and quietly bowed to none
for to no one in particular she refused to play
clara left dejected and alone that night
whiskey glasses still stacked high
and no one missed her when she was gone
though she had really wanted to say goodbye
now only one respectful gentleman visits her
placing twelve white roses on her grave
as he recalls the girl who played the steinway
and the joyous moments of music she gave
Copyright ©
wayne tolbert
|
|