Her voice flutters like crystal.
I sail from crest to crest of perfect vibrato
undulations and sigh at imaginings
of a rose-cheeked, ringlet-haired maiden
with hand clutched to her ruffled breast.
Perhaps she mourns her father's death
or grieves the murder of a lover or a sister.
Perhaps she stands before an ancient flame-engulfed house
or in a courtyard strewn with war's casualties.
I shake my head at the mediocrity of my evening commute.
The streetlights mercilessly crack the darkness
and illuminate the gas stations and the
fast food joints as they blur by my window.
Minnesota's freeways are smattered with dust
that clings like soot to a fireplace.
As I turn my car for the final stretch home,
I ponder the opera singer.
It is her fortune and her gift
to dramatize ancient times and places
and to live daily in her own modern drama.
Perhaps she is married to a composer
or dates the leading man.
Perhaps she lives in a high rise in New York
or in a quaint village in Italy.
Perhaps she has mediocre commutes in her car.
kmb 04/02
