Hello, Goodbye Dolly

Cluttered classics, boxed and bagged in hundreds of multi-colored crates,

a dull, sticky, chipping, hard plastic compels you to glide

bent-fingers past its wearing paint.

Dancing light in yellow lines sweep the surface in bright strides,

searching out the tops of many boxes, books, manuscripts,

recycled paper diaries of never-spilled secrets and dust mites--

neatly squared around the colorful carpeted bottom,

balancing the weight of Pa’s old phonograph machine. I lift my long skirt-bottom

from planks of coniferous tree. Tip-toeing over recently thumbed through

magazines,

planners,

agendas.

Swaying to the steady breeze of wind coming from Mexico as strangers

in the alleyway hang high Shrovetide décor.

Boas on the wall tell me that you were getting ready too,

hadn’t missed a beat of blues since you found rhythm.

Unopened stack of recent mail sits sloppy in the corner

atop your purple party dress draping the bean-bag chair.

Bills went to the main house so your tree was free of burdens,

letters and postcards were kept out here.

The corner of a red one peaks between family announcements,

birthday celebrations that you won’t get to attend.

A window shot of the coffee shop you used to visit daily,

a message scribbled quickly from a friend.

“Bourbon Street just ain’t blues without you, Dolly.”

Treble clef, but no name.

Secret sender’s grief slipped into the pile of others,

Making it appear unchanged--

circling back to where the light keeps time on boxes,

pointer-finger masked by dust from being dragged along,

wipe it clean against the corner of the player’s plastic cover,

lift it up,

plug it in,

turn it on.

The crates are stacked against the back in alphabetical order,

plastic chips and paper ripped from covers coat the floor.

Eyes closed as Ma Rainey floats from wall, through heart, to speaker--

opened as the music stops, swaying

with the tree’s slow rocking,

knowing that it’s done, but wanting more.