the gift of attention

There is a song that sounds like forgiveness.
I forget how it goes now.
But every time you look at me I think I hear the echo,
Because you keep on looking.
It’s how I know that somewhere, someone is still singing it.
Sounds distant, like a bad tape recording of an old jukebox in the alley.
And I have no way of proving it.
But the trace record of our signal pattern seems to indicate
There was a time in our history
When it was all over the radio.
Tonight, we lean in. You look satellite dish beautiful.
I want to scramble your hair and get lost in the static.
Mercy kneels in front of the piano,
drumming inspiration into the keys with her forefingers.
A violin bow arcs through rhythm changes like a swing dancer,
And you haven’t missed a single beat.