Music Therapy
With S.
She sang a song of monsters,
played two notes on the xylophone,
a striking lilt to my dull guitar.
Blue-black over blonde at twelve,
a clash with hospital attire,
singing all her secrets --
my job to note, assess, and file.
My stomach recalls the beat
and the burnt cadence. I remember
nothing of my report during rounds
save the sob one doctor covered with a cough.
So I made a deal with my muse:
when accompanying songs of monsters,
remember only the tune.
