Sunday, November 22, 2015
She sat on an old couch in a dusty apartment and wrote a song about a mansion, and turned the pen as if it were an instrument a surgeon held. Her hair was pulled back and her jeans were from days past , younger days. The paper was yellow with lines and the tablet was filled with songs written by her soft unheard voice. Her daughter asleep in another room and her husband off fishing in the ocean. Soon she would go to bed and then work, hard all day as a cleaner. But at night she wrote songs about mansions.