Night Music In the Garage

by Anne Britting Oleson

The moment when the engine
and the lights cut out,
the moment that leaves us
only the love song in shades of blue
strung out in the closeness of the car,
in the depths of night:

and I hear small children’s voices
singing out of tune counterpoint
to BB King from the rear seat,
much like a chorus of spring peepers
in a pond lately liberated
from the winter imprisonment of icy silence.
I sit still to listen, straining in the dark
toward a song I wish them to sing
always, come rain or shine,

and when, at last, the guitar
rises away and outward, past
us, past the half-full paint cans,
the shovels and rakes, the barrel
full of returnable bottles, out
through the roof into a night of clear skies,
I still make no move
to unbuckle the seat belt, open
the door, leave behind the echoes
of this moment which still
glows like stars raining down.