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,
occasionally
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,
rising,
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.