It's been a great two nights here in Charlotte. The poetry quality is high, and the competition has been full of surprises. I've gotten to spend time with many of my usual suspects, and some newer friends, who've come to the forefront in others' absences. And now, Poem-a-day #345:
Sometimes, I forget: many poets
don't know I can sing.
And the kids I teach don't know
that I struggle through the same
assignments I bring to their table.
And then Claire picks up her banjo
and begins to practice
on the edge of our beds,
filling the spaces between
the day's many, many words.
It is the most beautiful kind of
noise, this time of day.
I never believed my mother
when she told me she loved
to hear my piano mistakes
over and over again
from the next room.
Claire stops a lot,
and sometimes sighs
at herself like a swear word.
She apologizes for the mistakes,
and I think of my mother,
chopping onions in time to
halted Chopin preludes,
begging me to keep going
when the timer went off.
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