Beer and Buses

Seven months brings perspective

perhaps more than pediatricians know

but I’m pleased my little Marbles

cannot perceive all.


Though I know she will inherit

an age soaked with music,

she knows not yet

of neighbor’s raucous riffs,

the rage of his amps,

the screeching key of C.

Neighbor Noah’s a guitarist

who rehearses in 2D,

yet he leaves these extremes,


strumming, crooning to the heavens

and we listen.

No, she too doesn’t know

about the beer and the buses,

of what happens on those buses,

and what of the lyrics?

There are some of those lyrics.

Yet some lean melodic,

and others lean soft,

I stroke my phantom guitar,

and I sing Noah’s melodies

to my Marbles in the mornings.


she squeals at my riffs

not knowing the sounds from Barney.

The lovely cooing vowels

of her laughter, rising

like the balloons of those vowels

from baby Frieda Plath,


her handful of notes.

The vowels go wafting

in our loft,

pushed by baby’s warm breath.

The whisper of neighbor’s harmonies

on down the hall, out

into the Brooklyn air.