Violins In the Bathroom

Violins in the Bathroom


Sunday morning fades up slowly
and she’s picking out something
from “Man of La Mancha,”
on violin in the bathroom,
muffled by the creak of the fan,
serenading me while I lie in bed and try to think
of an excuse to just stay in and read.
Instead we throw on sweat pants, sandals,
and walk down to the bakery for muffins and tea
while it’s early and cool out. The day rises
through the dirty glass window,
and I want to ride my love out
like Rozinante in the sun—
so thin, I’m afraid she’d see its ribs.
I can’t speak to her the way I should,
though I’m old in many ways
and should know better, on this level.
I’m a boy, seeing giants in the parking lot—
the line of her throat, the dark center
in her eyes blinds me to all things.
I have to act;
I have to say these things,
or, though she be sweet now,
someday, looking back on this silence
may make her crude as Dulcinea
wrestling pigs in the farm yard.


C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on The Dead Mule