Old Time Fiddle Song
You repeat yourself.
Endlessly charming. Silent movie ingénue,
curls topped with a white straw hat,
ribbon around its crown,
a cluster of flowers.
Every day she does the same.
Walks to the gate, almost skipping,
waves at the neighbor on her front porch
stringing beans, shucking corn.
Links arms with an old gent,
and they sashay across Main into town.
She checks her reflection at the BonTon,
just as you stop for the long glass in the hall.
Always, you smile
as if your face were a surprise.
You call up the empty stairs:
I’m going out.
You call for no reason.