Elm Street

Suzanne Cleary

I am so happy to see the man who lives in the house on the corner

sit on the porch with a guitar on his knee, one arm draped

loosely, as if he patiently scans a vast repertoire, choosing

which song to play, or as if he has stopped mid-song

to tighten a string, then decided to listen to Elm Street

and compose a new song, notes his fingers will find and follow,

for Elm Street is a steep hill that draws skateboarders like a magnet,

that makes drivers roll down the truck window and stick an elbow out.

Elm Street has been here since before it had a name, dirt path

from hilltop to river. I am happy if the man is new to the guitar, pauses

in the middle of the only song he knows, because he has lost his place

or lost touch with the touch he has learned to imitate, late nights

in his attic-room rental, this middle-aged man who works second shift,

home now for the night, which he will fill, perhaps, with song,

or with stray notes that make song of the silence between them,

for sometimes song is beyond our reach, as found the art student

who dutifully copied masterpieces until he saw his true gift: forgery.

For a brief time, he built a life on copying Matisse,

for his simple line, unable to see that the line halted when the painter paused

to look at his model. The line resumed with hesitance, a quaver

the forger never could replicate, conceding,

I mastered his line, it was his pause I could not master -- finally having seen

that to see the model is to quaver in her presence, is to carry forward

what little you can balance on the tip of the brush.

Silence, big silence that surrounds us, some of us dare to hear you.

Tonight, I am happy it is the man on the corner, instead of me,

who sits in your presence, and readies himself to play.