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 | Just Before Rochelle Nameroff Just before the crickets start their jawing. And before the sudden rake of trees along the glass, and before the sadness. Just now I give in to the listening. Not to you with the TV on high and your long legs stretched upon the couch. Or to the downstairs and the shutting of doors, that impromptu song of marriage. Still I admire it, sung as it is, loud inside a world of indifference. So I listen to the whirr of the new electric fan, aimed at my legs with precision, its whispers up and down, its modest delicate slaps. The night is still there out the window, and the night air also— sweet conductor— filled with disturbing urgencies of noise. First the radio and its jackhammer boasts, then a car like a sneer around the corner. Gone. Somebody else's love, some lovely stranger's love, might take off just like that, with a window open, a bare arm hugging the scratched red door, and two lonely bars of a love gone someplace else song. |