JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

now most of it is gone

or going

 

the furniture of life, things

you have lived with

for half a century, faces, names

you know as well as your own

they must be there somewhere

 

if you could only cut through the fog

replay that unchained melody

the one that topped the hit parade

its refrain just outside the room now

 

a ghost with a voice like a golden bell

calling you from somewhere so close

almost out of hearing

 

and you strain to call it back

step out so bravely after it

tell the cab driver – follow that song

so sure you will overtake it

find a way back to where you used to live

 

meter still ticking as he turns to ask you again