St Lucy’s bells ring out this noon:
A sluggish Saturday, a bummer.
My mandolin is out of tune.
A long slow crawl past May and June,
Past hot dogs, burgers, to late summer,
To this tame time, this sad-faced noon.
Drenched are the rooftops of this town:
My new home, fortyish latecomer
Sick of the city’s strident tune.
Tonight the clouds will balk the moon,
Choke off its glow, that dulcet glimmer
Like music from a silver bell. This noon
Finds me indoors, dry as a dune.
Rain beats time on the roof, dull drummer.
I pluck my harp. It’s out of tune.
I’d sing. I’d yodel, hum, or croon.
I’d blare the Jam, the Damned, Joe Strummer:
But bells bemoan this rainy noon,
Their lamentations out of tune.