by Maggie Vogts
Maybe, by Maggie Vogts (2016)
Standing on the pavement, beneath a café light.
Singing aloud, not a soul around. Just passing time.
Yonder walks a young man, with a shaking head.
Flipping a cig, he raises his voice to say, “That kind of music’s dead.”
Maybe, if the soul don’t weep. Maybe, if memory don’t steal your sleep.
Maybe, if life ain’t filled with regret. Then maybe this old music’s dead.
Remember that old-time rambling man? He dipped a pen in wine.
He could tune a tale to make you want to cry, “My, oh my.”
Singing in the parlors. Swinging in the bars.
Sharing a love of strings and dreams, playing pain by heart.
But somewhere in the dark days, the numbers filled our eyes.
We stooped to sing what we didn’t believe, and we let the music die.
But maybe, if the soul still weeps. Maybe, if longing steals your sleep.
Maybe, if time is filled with regret. Then maybe this old music ain’t dead.