Who never embraced worldwide fame
and sabotaged his health to cope and
was possibly wary of so-called fans
who could turn on him when they did not
get what they wanted. But he channeled
the muse as we say which I imagine is
akin to how my new guitar sounds to me
as if certain notes are a call to angels. Chords
resonating like I’ve stepped back into
Fort Myers, Florida in 1981 when I spy
a kid’s parents frolicking, the only G-rated
word to use for my fourteen-year-old eyes,
behind a hazy screen door. I don’t remember
the kid’s name, just sweating glasses on a low
table and his older sister’s insistent bikini, and
my obsession with airplane crashes
while singing “Under Pressure” in
the echoey stairwell open to the humid
night air, catching the scent of magnolias
which I forever associate with my lack
of useful knowledge of the future.
The Gulf radiates moonlight, wind
hums through the wires and palm
leaves like dry brushes being gently
dragged along the ground. That day
I got first degree sunburn and trudged
across the beach to return to the dark
air-conditioned room where my father
was always sleeping at midday, though
he still managed to get a decent suntan.
Photo by Rushina Morrison on Unsplash
