An Audience of One
Stopping On The Street To Listen
AN AUDIENCE OF ONE
After dark and I’m taking the dog for a walk
And as we mosey on by our house
I can hear her, can hear the piano
The slightly tinny notes of Pop Goes the Weasel.
The air is freezing and the dog looks up at me
Let’s keep moving man
I have cold paws
But I stop, try not to breathe.
There’s no other sound, no
Traffic or rain or birds, no wind
Just muffled, thin keys from inside
A warm, yellow lit home.
Just her, near a window, behind a drape
Not a fancy dress
Not a woodland fairy
No recital in an echoing church.
An audience of one
Well, two actually
The dog tugs at the leash and
We keep on walking.
We walk and the piano grows distant
And I wonder what her next song might be
And I hurry my step, me and the dog
Wanting to hear the piano again.
About a decade ago one of the local kids was learning the saxophone, and we were treated to a few years of practice sessions. It took a while, but they got better. Then they graduated or moved or whatever, and the little free concerts were gone. I kind of miss them.
Years ago, the children of a few of our next-door neighbors began practicing in a nearby garage. We would sit and listen to them: drums, guitars, bass, playing the "oldies," which included not only the Stones and the Beatles, but also Pearl Jam and Nirvana. After practice, one of them would walk up the alley past our patio with his equipment on a Radio Flyer wagon, heading home. We loved being seranaded by our neighborhood band.