Four Men Sing

We stand, listening to each other:
the first run-through is rough;
we are not breathing together,
so our phrasing does not match.
The low November sun carves
into the gold edges of our faces
and shoulders; we lean into
the notes, making chords ring.
My wife returns from her afternoon:
she thinks we are a radio program,
giggles at her mistake. We resume
pressing the notes, listening,
chewing the sound like fresh fall apples
crisp, crunchy, tangy, sweet.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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