Your hair is just as long
and sleek as when I rode
on the back of your bike,
playing with your pony tail in the wind.
I honked your horn
at people walking by
and we sang together
while you peddled to the grocery store.
Here Comes the Sun.
You murmur my
childhood songs,
though your thin lips are
parched, immobile.
You still have dancer’s legs
that can no longer hold you up.
Eyes open to His arms,
closed to all you’ve left behind.
Here Comes the Sun.
Your last performance
was for me.
I hold the tape
you recorded
in my shaky palm.
Fate closed the curtains
and dimmed the lights.