Richard’s Songs Sy Roth
He sings full-throated falsetto phrases that vibrate the sofa, homage to The Drifters, the boardwalk, and foot-long hot dogs. He imagines her hair indelicately snapping at his face. Her siren’s arms ensnaring him in an ephemeral embrace. His voice shifts to Pachelbel to drown out the kettle-drum outrage of her voice, a harridan’s whip chirruping at him from across the room. Brown Sugar wafts in dreamily on a sirocco of warmed air, a soothing balm that he whistles through satyr’s lips. Bellicose Johnny Comes Marching In plunks down beside him on the couch. Bayonet affixed, she announces her rebel victory. And he sings no more ensconced in labyrinthine darkness. The songs become sour reminders.