when the band struck,
the seven chord,
we all were there,
each of us ghosts,
settled in the chair,
on the last night of the Grand,
raising a glass, saluting the sinking ship,
ice melting, is this vodka?
tilting a hat to drinks,
as a favor, lips to the mic,
strings almost broken, hands on the keys,
who were we singing too?
one by one,
we gave our farewell soliloquy,
the unchained animal,
the architect,
the master Splinter,
the kid released from band camp,
the deviant son of a preacher man,
the snowboarder with a heart of gold,
the newcomer, fresh, smiling unaware in his sweater,
and me, on the keys, howling down the wind,
as one by one, we gave our farewell,
strings almost broken, hands on the keys,
I ask again, raising a glass, listening to the walls,
who were we singing too?
this place must have been somebody once,
must have seen somebody once,
must have held somebody once,
in a grand, sweep of an evening,
I close my eyes and imagine, what the
chatter might have felt like, the jazz
might have tumbled into, the sound
becoming the roar of the crowd, the smoke,
swirling cloves and tabacoo from, their lips,
whiskey spilling diamonds on, the table,
lipstick writing I shouldn't love you but, I do,
left behind in glittered out, clutch purses,
smelling of a musky innocence, from shoe polish,
silk, cotton, suede, sweat, and the music, the music,
must have been somebody once,
must have seen somebody once,
must have held somebody once,
in a grand, sweeping, crash of an evening,
I open my eyes,
ghosts in the chair,
we become their ghosts in the chair,
the walls say our goodbyes,
one last time I ask,
waiting for an answer,
who were we singing too?
the band strikes the eleven chord.
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