Painting by George TookerWe sing plain American
and play, achingly similar,
in a flux of singing telegrams.
Through well-tempered episodes
and false entries, we build
like a Midwest summer
fever, an infection
of synonymous tumors, ripe
with tonic chords
Gershwin would admire.
The house water runs
warm and loud until everything
goes silent; but it’s never
entirely silent, to be murdered
by a song.
Tess Kincaid
February 2011
Posted over on her site Willow Manor
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