I play music that I
think the dead
would like to hear,
something to spark their listening
from the other side.
Mozart is a perennial favorite,
as one immortal to another so to speak.
“A Day In The Life” by the Beatles too,
that last long seemingly endless chord
like a taut serene musical illustration
of the real passages of time,
not this love and fight and makeup stuff,
but the serenity
of just the thought of what eternity
must be like
from one who hopes
to the one who knows
and all the anguishes and reliefs
in between.

I play music
for the ones who aren’t dead as well,
but may as well be.
The rockers I haven’t seen in years,
the soul queens who took my kiss
and invested it in someone else
back in the Seventies.
There’s martial music for the ones
who joined the army.
Some show tunes for those
who always seemed to live one breath
from breaking into song.
Even if they live in Wichita
or Brooklyn, they seem to be
coming from that other side.
The song begins to play
and there’s so much more hearing
in this room than just my own.
I hum, I sing along.
The people no longer in my life and me . . .
we have such voices.

John Grey is an Australian poet. Recently published in Slant, Southern California Review, and Skidrow Penthouse, he also has upcoming work in Bryant Literary Magazine, Natural Bridge, and Soundings East.