Listening to Townes Van Zandt
by Christine Gosnay
We are of one mind
and too much has not been said
about all the quiet afternoons
childhood offered us,
lit gray like a cat, or blue,
and cursed with an early moon.
When father wore an apron
or crept like a bear, we screamed.
Nothing is so gone.
Where is his record player
or the channel that forked
a distant year toward us,
kind, slow magnet?
There was a song we shared
without listening
you widowed soul crawling away on your elbows.
I sing it to my child, with a full hand I
flick its rapeseeds everywhere,
clear, and slow,
with all the sincerity its author indeed felt
in his ten-gallon hat
and his thin, whisky-soaked shirt.
Listen. It seems like today I will be listening to more pounding and scraping as the upstairs's neighbors continue to gut their condo. What I really should do is learn to listen to my body. Instead of going to a baby shower last night, I chose happy hour. After a week of illness and feeling weak, my body didn't appreciate this choice. This outing made has merely made me more tired instead of energizing me. Since I haven't been to the gym (or exercised at all) this week, I should have known I wasn't ready for such festivities.
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