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Elm Street
Suzanne Cleary
I am so happy to see the man who lives in the house on the corner
sit on the porch with a guitar on his knee, one arm draped
loosely, as if he patiently scans a vast repertoire1, choosing
which song to play, or as if he has stopped mid-song
and compose a new song, notes his fingers will find and follow,
for Elm Street is a steep hill that draws skateboarders like a magnet,
that makes drivers roll down the truck window and stick an elbow out.
Elm Street has been here since before it had a name, dirt path
from hilltop to river. I am happy if the man is new to the guitar, pauses
in the middle of the only song he knows, because he has lost his place
or lost touch with the touch he has learned to imitate, late nights
home now for the night, which he will fill, perhaps, with song,
or with stray notes that make song of the silence between them,
for sometimes song is beyond our reach, as found the art student
For a brief time, he built a life on copying Matisse,
for his simple line, unable to see that the line halted when the painter paused
to look at his model. The line resumed with hesitance, a quaver
I mastered his line, it was his pause I could not master -- finally having seen
that to see the model is to quaver in her presence, is to carry forward
what little you can balance on the tip of the brush.
Silence, big silence that surrounds us, some of us dare to hear you.
Tonight, I am happy it is the man on the corner, instead of me,
who sits in your presence, and readies himself to play.
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