The music played, came into open windows
and passing autos, on air it rode
to be lilted to far away places.
Strident and European piano, Schumann maybe
an opus from Carnaval, sounding almost like ragtime,
sketched the scene perfectly, as if scored specifically
to suit the moment it’s heard.
I feel curved in aural, ears and hollows,
it tickles the melody, leaves behind
the sweet scent of talc in the slow dust.
Lips were redder, the pinks possibly
more soft than today. Upon windblown linens,
did people bite harder then? Though her back always
arced that way.
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 