Mary

On the wire her voice seemed
Distant
And tired.

The echo
Of her words died down
Leaving the memory of
The sound.

The rain kept falling
Like bright confetti under
The moving lights
Of cars.

Chopin
Told a tale of strange
Despair

While impossible dreams
Hovered with silver wings
In the air.

And I, no longer merry,
Dreamed once more about
Mary.
****