It was easier then,
everything from sex to Sunday morning
was there for the taking,
sun-warmed and tangled on the bed.
The moon-faced banjo
offered melodies sweet
like plums. There were no hollows
or empty spaces
that did not sing,
no fear of heartstrings breaking,
wound too tightly around the peg.
It was harder then,
your steel-tipped fingers like claws
piercing the taut skin of an overripe fruit,
the juicy music pouring out.
Nothing left but bitter seeds
that birds keep plucking from the ground,
carrying them away in sharp beaks,
carving out a puddle, a skin
for the percussive rain.