On the city’s main street, wind blows things

up and out of the gutter, half litter, half leaves.

It’s winter now, January. Sitting in the coffee shop

I hear “Sometimes We Cry.” Van Morrison’s voice

scrapes the inside of my skin as it always does.

We have a past, he and I, this song and me.

I played it over and over one October morning,

years ago, as I drove toward a funeral.

The windshield wipers put me in a trance,

rain blurred the road,

Morrison broke my heart.

Today, looking out the window, I watch the wind

rearrange the world. I listen to the music without

tears, but the gray sky could drop rain at any minute,

and this saxophone solo is nothing but old sorrow,

a weight around my neck.

~ Cheryl Unruh



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