Listening to him strum his bass,

I have never seen his face,

But I know the interpreter is masculine,

Full of compassion,

Intent.

Each Sunday evening he entertains me with his interpretations,

Slowly and continually I fall in love with a stranger,

How could he know what chords to play,

When to strum the lowly,

When to pop hi-tones,

When to wait on silence.

I sit next to my forced breeze,

Enjoying his expression like sugar on the palate,

Never enough,

I press my ear to the cold steel,

Hoping that he would start again,

He doesn't and I wait.