Sometimes he startles when the radio’s on
across the landing or another room
and now he cocks his head to hear a tone
of music playing from an open window
or Andy, hobo, whistling so his breath
steams and echoes up the viaduct
on cold and bitter evenings in late fall.
A big one’s when his lady suddenly
(opening doors or putting trainers on)
blows away the mortgage, bills and train
with music more than any string or pipe
could voice a childhood feeling with a jolt:
that stopping now of everything that seems
- human breath transforming in a song.