He introduced me to Debussy
on his old school record player,
needle tracing the grooves,
the soft hiss like waves lapping on the shore.
Orchestral perfection and siren song
of a women’s chorus,
repeated motifs impressing
themselves like oceans in a conch shell.
I wonder where that album is now
that he’s dead, his collection of music
and so many books
strewn around the house, tucked into
corners in the living room
and in a shed out in the meadow.
I would lie in his hammock stretched
between two giant oak trees.
Listen to the motor boats on Woodward Lake,
pet his dogs.
I had sung La Mer
But this final note
Roberta Brown is a writer and musician. Her work publications include local newspapers, Peninsula Poets, and online at the Michigander’s Post and Short Fiction Break. She served as President of Detroit Working Writers (June 1, 2017, through May 31, 2021) and is a Poetry Editor for the MacGuffin.