In the haze of yesteryears,
there exists a room—
a sanctuary of memories.
The air, thick with the scent
of old wood and dreams,
cradles a man.
His silhouette
melds into the contours
of an ancient La-Z-Boy recliner.
The upholstery,
faded like a love letter,
embraces him,
whispering secrets from the past.

His fingers, calloused and tender,
cradle a guitar—a relic of melodies
spun from heartache and joy.
The strings, worn by countless chords,
hum under his touch.
Each note
reverberates through the room,
painting the walls
with echoes
of forgotten ballads.

Beside him rests a small table—
a humble altar
to life’s simple pleasures.
A beer, amber and effervescent,
stands sentinel.
Its condensation kisses the glass,
mirroring the man’s contemplative gaze.
It's his companion—
a silent witness
to late-night musings
and whispered confessions.

His hair, a cascade of strawberry blonde,
dances in the lamplight.
Curly tendrils
frame a face etched with stories—
the laughter lines, the furrowed brow,
the freckles like stardust.
His eyes, half-closed,
hold the weight of forgotten dreams.

Zara slides by,
a fleeting presence in the room.
Her laughter, a brief melody,
mingles with the guitar's notes.
She leaves behind a trace of her scent,
a reminder of shared moments and unspoken words.

And there he sits,
bathed in the glow
of a vintage lamp, a troubadour of solitude.
The room sways to the rhythm of his heartbeat,
and time—ever the elusive minstrel—
strums its chords.
Outside,
rain taps against the window,
a gentle percussion
to accompany his serenade.

In this snapshot of quietude,
the man becomes a melody—
a harmonious blend
of beer-soaked notes,
curly-haired musings,
and the soft strumming of life.
As the night deepens, he sings to the silence,
weaving his own constellations
from memories and shadows.

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Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack

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