Mo

I thought I heard you
singing on the radio,
while sitting at the
kitchen table long ago.
"Hey, that sounds
like Mo," I said
as your sad song
went through my head,
"I always knew he'd
make it to the show."

I pulled my chair up
closer to the tune,
and watched your music
float around the room,
as broken hearted lovers cried
eggs and bacon slowly fried,
coffee with two
tablespoons of gloom.

She handed me my plate
and then she said,
"Someone in this song
will end up dead",
and sure enough
right through the heart,
a soundtrack for
a brand new start,
her white linoleum
turned crimson red.

for m.t.


Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   November 2015