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Poetry by Cheryl Della Pelle
Aurelia Field at The Longhorn Cafe
I am Aurelia Field
and when I drink I drink
Irish Whiskey, long and lean,
and when the music stops,
a hand slides down
with a green paper in it,
I recognize a ticket, a monetary prize
for a momentary song,
but not this time,
this time I push the buttons,
backlit neon orange
and know this time the song will last
beyond the last call,
I hear it still, hear it?
Back home the night tosses me gently
on the waves of clean sheets.
In my sleep I push away auburn hair
reeking with smoke. Tomorrow I will
wash it and remember
stories told of slave ships to Connecticut
and ghosts who roam Litchfield mansions,
remember crooked rails
and a straight ahead need to connect
life to life
while someone invisible sits alone,
having forgotten how to speak,
how to know when to say
“I am here.”
I am Aurelia Field
and when I drink I drink
Irish Whiskey, long and lean,
and when the music stops,
a hand slides down
with a green paper in it,
I recognize a ticket, a monetary prize
for a momentary song,
but not this time,
this time I push the buttons,
backlit neon orange
and know this time the song will last
beyond the last call,
I hear it still, hear it?
Back home the night tosses me gently
on the waves of clean sheets.
In my sleep I push away auburn hair
reeking with smoke. Tomorrow I will
wash it and remember
stories told of slave ships to Connecticut
and ghosts who roam Litchfield mansions,
remember crooked rails
and a straight ahead need to connect
life to life
while someone invisible sits alone,
having forgotten how to speak,
how to know when to say
“I am here.”
The Button Box
A rusted blue harlequin, his smile faded,
chipped at the corners, emblazons the top
of the tin box.
Before opening a good shake rattles old buttons;
I know them, each one,
and as the lid pops off, the smell of quiet dust
drifts out;
it is the attic above the back stairway
that leads to boxes of books, plastic curtains
that with a breath would disintegrate,
and a forgotten drying rack stands naked.
It is always warm in the attic, and dry,
and I always know who I am there
or who I was.
As I sit at a child's table, on a very small chair
and look out the gable window that overlooks the
garden you used to tend,
I cannot let it go,
someplace, maybe it is here,
but it doesn't have to be the last time I breathe
the air of my childhood, no, I need only remember
to take down your old button box, pry off the lid,
select a favorite button
and hold you in my hand.
A rusted blue harlequin, his smile faded,
chipped at the corners, emblazons the top
of the tin box.
Before opening a good shake rattles old buttons;
I know them, each one,
and as the lid pops off, the smell of quiet dust
drifts out;
it is the attic above the back stairway
that leads to boxes of books, plastic curtains
that with a breath would disintegrate,
and a forgotten drying rack stands naked.
It is always warm in the attic, and dry,
and I always know who I am there
or who I was.
As I sit at a child's table, on a very small chair
and look out the gable window that overlooks the
garden you used to tend,
I cannot let it go,
someplace, maybe it is here,
but it doesn't have to be the last time I breathe
the air of my childhood, no, I need only remember
to take down your old button box, pry off the lid,
select a favorite button
and hold you in my hand.