That Day In The Park; Headphoneless Poem by Vonnie Postit

the music will always play
the man will always
carefully move
his fingers down the body of his songbird
and play, play on.
the woman, fat from the fullness that
sometimes come with this life
will always sing her stories
to the offspring of her daughter,
the root of the light in her eyes;
the emptiness of her wallet.
she will always ring, ringing clearly.
even if you cannot hear
it will always pump like pure oxygen
through someone else's ear, someone else's heart.
The children will always pick the flowers
listen to the trumpet of their parents asking them to stop
and then continue to pick more,
do you hear the love in their temporary frustration?
I wonder if the children do.
The children will always pick the flowers
whether they picked this life or not,
the trees,
drooping,
the clouds will always come muffling, muffling
the purity of sound.
but,
if you listen for it,
the music will always play on
whether you've picked this life
to listen to
or not.