No Song Unsung
We float in the backyard pool and sing,
my sister and I draped over neon blue
noodles, our mother, aged ninety three,
perched on a shocking pink float
in snazzy tankini suit, glittered
ball cap, chunky shades;
a trendy trio with fresh blue manicures
stirring lazy ringlets in turquoise waters.
We pull up melodies from time’s creaky vault,
sing da, da, da where lyrics are lost.
When we were young, mom would
belt out a tune, tell us she missed
her chance on stage by fluke of fortune.
Today she croons froggy vocals
with no less gusto, all those songs
we’ve sung through length of days.
Our notes float up, a cantata to bluebirds.
Valerie Macon lives in North Carolina, USA. She enjoys growing food to feed the homeless and hungry, and started a garden for this purpose. She shares her poetry in numerous venues. She has published three books of poetry, and donates profits from her book on homelessness, sleeping Rough to the garden where all food is given away to the hungry. valeriemaconpoetry.com