by Barry Peters
She’s singing a folk song, an anti-war song, a civil rights song, some such kumbaya song, but
I’m stuck on folk song, a song for folks, though clearly the wrong song for these folks. The act
before hers was a ventriloquist, a boy in a bowtie who moved his lips on purpose. He spilled
water on his dummy, told crummy jokes. The folks, they laughed and clapped, but now they’re uncomfortable. The folk singer, why is she so serious, why is her voice so high and thin, warbly
like a bird, a plea to be heard? I consider the folks and I consider her. I consider her suede vest
and corduroy skirt, consider her boots hung over the rungs of her stool. Consider her guitar, consider her words. Consider the basement, the yellow walls, the tile floor. Consider the
overhead pipes like the valves and vessels of a heart turned inside-out.
Barry Peters lives in Durham, North Carolina. Publications include Image, RHINO, Santa Clara Review, Southampton Review, Southern Review, Sugar House Review, and Swing.
Emerge Literary Journal 