I love your spell
when I’m in the old room
across from the night.
The phonograph spins
the ensemble to slow
blues; mute bass, distant piano,
familiar sounds to fill
this empty season.
If I can’t have you everyday,
take one evening
to give me your naked ghost
and I’ll find my slow-dance robe.
Haunt me
with your whispers and moans
like an ancient charm
pulled from the music.
I want to see a white flurry
of you in the dirty air
when the piano player
writes his vamp
for the dark,
low register song.
I listen for answers.
The heart does its waltz.
Love, your spell is everywhere.
-Michael Paul Thomas
