The world stops when my papa sings, when his
Weathered hands strum the guitar,
Both worn with years of work they pick out melodies memorized long ago,
Long before the radio and the television decided who deserved to be computer edited
Until there was nothing left but synthesized beats
And the remnants of a human voice roboticized to make way for cash.
Long before the pop stars were born, before they were conceived
Even before my papa
Joined the Navy
To fight
The ache of farm work drained out through calloused fingertips
Onto steel strings
And while the world buzzes around me
And the entertainment industry
Informs me that their stars deserve their pay
Because their billion dollar life is wrought with difficulty
My world stops
When my papa sings.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
Thank you for coming to my blog. I am revamping my site and editing my posts about the 50's (all 17 of them) and the 60's (17 of them, too). Stay tuned...
Miss the 50's, I must say! Overall, I think we were better off.
Post a Comment