Coda Sara curls, a comma, around  her rapidly closing life's stanza. Upstairs, young Molly Wilson gets it on with some dark-eyed myth-maker from the corner tavern. The creak of their bed scrapes chalk lines across Sara's ceiling. Sara stopped singing her own mating songs years ago, longs now for a last refrain, even a three note riff before the coda's arrival. She weeps into the pregnant night. Her tears fall as golden rain onto a passing tramp. He thinks briefly of a girl he once loved, then moves on down the highway,  his own song lost into the miles  disappearing behind him. Pris Campbell ©2007 Art: Alone and Cold by Elana Retfalvi Click HERE to see more of her work. Elena has appeared on my site many times. Her photography is marvelous and has been in exhibits all over the world. Return to Poetry Index I Return to Homepage