That Sony radio’s cheap black leather strap
just barely tied the music to my wrist.
So poorly made I feared it just might snap,
and put the soundtrack of our day at risk.
Imagined music on the muddy floor,
the dying song, a tiny nine-volt charge,
the watering down of brass, the drooping horn,
an Alpert wane or Mangione dirge.
But why, I thought, paint worry on the wall,
our love laid out in splendor on the grass,
our picnic day of wedding plans for fall,
our joy so great no greater could surpass?
It seemed a perfect day, but in the end,
love’s coda drowned in silted, silent sound.
Lanning Lee 