Outside
Outside
Sometimes distant music filters into
night on the back porch, where I swing
near the red geraniums while facing
the fairy lights glowing like fireflies.
Hearing the faraway music reminds me of my relatives’ late night parties,
listening to the record player and the laughter in my pajamas
as the sounds swirl smokily upstairs.
I remember walking past the school gym
in the antiseptic, echoing hallway,
hearing the cheers, the buzzer,
the squeak of sneakers skidding,
the thudding rhythm of basketballs,
but muted, distant, behind heavy closed doors.
I think of weddings, sprawling, loud,
red faced young graduates in ties clutching beers,
women in tight black dresses,
the band playing Blister in the Sun,
and then stepping outside into the cool air,
into the dark protective night,
and though you can see the dancing through the lit windows,
there is calm outside, away from the din,
and the loud music is reduced to muffled, isolated strains.
The ice cream truck tinkles its music box melodies in another part of the neighborhood,
not mine, magic, far away, elusive.
But I am content to hear the faraway tinkling,
to observe twinkling Christmas parties from afar.
I have always known my place was outside
in the dark, in the cool,
with the crickets and the fireflies.
Copyright © Emily Boyle | Year Posted 2020
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