His voice was always the sweetness
left on your lips after smoking clove
cigarettes wrapped in their brown papers,
slow strokes on a bass guitar, midnight
shots of espresso knocked back before
walking miles in October darkness.

Now he is an old man. He wears a pointed
fedora to match his nose, and has the faint
look of shame and gratitude. When he speaks
his lyrics you taste ten-year-old Woodford Reserve.
The room fills with wafting cigars, the marvel
and dread of Old Testament angels. You hear
cello music, feel the first snow on your neck;
wind opens the louvres on the last tobacco barns.

Bio: Sonja Johanson