A Poem For My Little Lady

Street music

I watched him every day. He sat on the northwest dusty street corner of the antiquated downtown sidewalk. I sat on the nearest bench, smoked a joint, and listened to his rusty guitar strings in a city that could flow live music from most any direction, when you are downtown, anyway. He spent his entire life playing, and not caring. The notes touched his ears, and he could be content sitting outside in bitter cold or swelling heat. The rhythmic patterns, harmonic chords, the progression of a classic, was all he knew he needed.

 

He left his case open. This was how he made his living, I suppose. I’d stay for an hour or so, listening, and watch the evening sky settle into an orange-red sunset, reflecting off the clouds until they were dark. The people passed, and I watched them, how they noticed him. Some stayed for a bit, or smiled, and some threw in what they could, while some pretended not to notice at all. No one said a word, and then the night came.

 

I’d drop ten dollars into his case, everyday, as I walked by, on my way to my car, and say, “you were lovelier today than yesterday,” and he’d always start to sing, “A Poem For My Little Lady,” a Kenny Rogers cover, in his raspy tenor pitch. I’d wait, and watch, and blush. Of course, I took it all figuratively, the lyrics were very personal (Mr. Rogers wrote the song for his wife), but I didn’t mind. He knew I was his biggest fan, which made more of a difference to him, I believe.

 

“Thanks for another relaxing afternoon, sir,” I’d say.

“You’re welcome, my little lady.”

 

Perhaps, if he had been younger, I would have fallen… but I digress. This became a routine after work. I would sit, and stare, crossing my legs, resting my chin on my fist and my elbow on my dress. I would lean toward him and furrow my brow, focusing, trying to see through his sandy clothing, through his skin, into his essence. “This old man is a passing dream,” I thought. “One day, I’ll sit here, and he won’t fill my ears with his music, a recollection of suspension in the air. What will he be to me then? I’ll have to replay everything, inside my head, likely to be the only one holding on to his perfect memory. What if I forget?”

 

I sat, and watched him strum, each note bringing us closer, you know, to the inevitable ending. I sat, he played, people passed, and the sun set, each and every day, until fifteen years later, he never came again. On that day, and for another month, I sat where he sat, and sang “A Poem For My Little Lady” in the streets, in front of everyone passing by, just one time, and left Rose petals behind for him to find.

 

I bought a guitar and learned to play, more and more songs. He inspired me. Now I sit, every day after work, to play and sing for whoever needs the free therapy, like he provided me. I noticed a young man listening the other day, sitting in my old spot, watching.

 

“This woman is a passing dream…” he thought. I saw it in his furrowed brow. He got up to walk by, but I stopped him.

“Any requests?” I asked. He glanced back, exhaled smoke from his thinning cigarette, squinted his eyes, and yawned.

“Across The Universe,” he said.

“Sure thing, sweet heart.”

“Thanks, I love The Beatles.” And he stayed, and watched, and blushed.

 

This became a habit for him in the afternoons. I would play for him, everyday, and as he got up to leave, he would say, “Thanks again for brightening my day, ma’am,” and I’d play “Across The Universe.”

 

“You’ll remember me, won’t you, darling?” I asked him, one day, fifteen years later.

“Of course,” he said. “It will be a perfect memory.”

 

I smiled, and waved, and very gently, died the next day.

Reviews

[Vanessa]

I really, really did like this. Nothing truely bad can be said about it. And the whole idea of repetition in the woman taking on after the man, I liked that as well.
I just wish I could have got a bit deeper into the man's personality, so that his dissapearance would have had a bigger impact. But it's fine just the same.

Oh, and your stories seem to have an impact on me. That's a very, very good thing.