Sittin in the mornin sun… I’ll be sittin when the evening comes.
It drifts from somewhere on the opposite side of the street, tinny and compact, floating downward from the heights of its storied window. Finding the source would be possible, if the urge were there.
But what does it matter?
The song is playing somewhere, and knowing which window it came from wouldn’t change the song at all.
Watchin the ships roll in. Then I’ll watch em roll away again.
He hums in tempo with the music, though not always on pitch. Somehow it doesn’t matter here as it might in other places. The song doesn’t change with his mistakes. He finds some peace in that.
He taps his gnarled shoe in quiet rhythm, humming contentedly.
He likes being here, at this time of day, when the music drifts across to him from the open window. And maybe, he thinks to himself, that he doesn’t try to find the window because he doesn’t really want this song to be coming from anywhere.
He just wants it to be.
I’m just gonna sit at the dock of the bay…
He tries for a moment to sing, but it’s been too long. Even though he knows the words somewhere deep inside him, he can’t find them just yet.
Maybe he’ll try to sing again tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow.
He switches back to humming and catches the end of the chorus.
dock of the bay… wastin time…
He remembers, briefly, the smell of the ocean that he knew once, long ago.
But too much time, too much age has dulled that memory.
Now it is little more than a ghost of a memory—the knowledge that once he remembered that smell of the sea. That once he remembered the wooden dock and the swells underneath, lightly rocking the pier—and the cry of the gulls as they scavenged around him, and the salty breeze on his face...
He closes his eyes and tries to remember, but the image is gone as quickly as it came.
He’ll wait for it to come back again. He almost had it today.
Maybe he’ll remember tomorrow.
Look hard… Nothin’s gonna change. Everything still remains the same…
He hums contentedly and taps his gnarled shoe in quiet rhythm.
It’s a beautiful day today.
Looks like tomorrow might be beautiful, too.
It drifts from somewhere on the opposite side of the street, tinny and compact, floating downward from the heights of its storied window. Finding the source would be possible, if the urge were there.
But what does it matter?
The song is playing somewhere, and knowing which window it came from wouldn’t change the song at all.
Watchin the ships roll in. Then I’ll watch em roll away again.
He hums in tempo with the music, though not always on pitch. Somehow it doesn’t matter here as it might in other places. The song doesn’t change with his mistakes. He finds some peace in that.
He taps his gnarled shoe in quiet rhythm, humming contentedly.
He likes being here, at this time of day, when the music drifts across to him from the open window. And maybe, he thinks to himself, that he doesn’t try to find the window because he doesn’t really want this song to be coming from anywhere.
He just wants it to be.
I’m just gonna sit at the dock of the bay…
He tries for a moment to sing, but it’s been too long. Even though he knows the words somewhere deep inside him, he can’t find them just yet.
Maybe he’ll try to sing again tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow.
He switches back to humming and catches the end of the chorus.
dock of the bay… wastin time…
He remembers, briefly, the smell of the ocean that he knew once, long ago.
But too much time, too much age has dulled that memory.
Now it is little more than a ghost of a memory—the knowledge that once he remembered that smell of the sea. That once he remembered the wooden dock and the swells underneath, lightly rocking the pier—and the cry of the gulls as they scavenged around him, and the salty breeze on his face...
He closes his eyes and tries to remember, but the image is gone as quickly as it came.
He’ll wait for it to come back again. He almost had it today.
Maybe he’ll remember tomorrow.
Look hard… Nothin’s gonna change. Everything still remains the same…
He hums contentedly and taps his gnarled shoe in quiet rhythm.
It’s a beautiful day today.
Looks like tomorrow might be beautiful, too.
posted by Dave @ 6/03/2003 04:53:00 AM
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