by Peter Dale
The names of ‘choosers’, chosen by the voice
of chatter-brained continuity, get interspersed
with namesakes dropping in from my long past.
Some stop me with a jolt. A chill like ice
drags me back years. Not him. Long dead he is,
a fatal hiking fall. … No, never her!
Music was the sort of noise she couldn’t hear.
People do change, they move, and don’t liaise.
And chatter-brain goes on with listeners’ views
and news. More namesakes shuffle my deeds past,
knocking events, friends, foes from pillar to post.
Retired instrumentalists and so on, brief c. v.’s.
vex with roads not taken, chances missed.
Listeners recast my past. Not how I would.
Friends lost, foes found, the ill-chosen, the broken word.
Music raises the spirits, they say. The old eyes are moist.