The Music Box

Inside an old house with no survivors.
Sits a music box on a window sill.
Sometimes you can hear it play.
A song of old.

There’s a lullaby that can calm.
A simple staccato swan song.
A cherished thought.
My little girl’s bomb.

From the silence, sound can be a handy weapon.
That keeps you awake.
Like a shot of caffeine.
Or a bucket of water.

There’s a switch to turn.
A menial task where memories emerge.
A tiny ballerina.
My emotional surge.

I left the house from unseen obligations.
Now my daughter hates me.
It’s not much of town without any friends.
The choice was for the better.

There’s something to give.
A memoir from the place now unlived.
The gift I remembered that she forgot.
My attempt to rebuild the bridge.

D.E.-2009