Each ballot is a bullet unshot.
Claire de Lune
Uncle Bill's piano rolls mellowly along,
Touching dim moods and whispering old warmth.
In its ethereal arc outside the window
The full moon is smooth and slow.
As Uncle Bill's fingers coax the keys
His cigar in the heavy green ashtray
Emits a flimsy plume of fragrance.
The smoke, like Debussy's essence,
Rises straight up and flutters a bit
Before it disappears.
Aunt Martha's supper dishes
Clatter a counterpoint in the sink.
*******
Alan Harris