Living Opera
the buzzing of the air conditioner is too loud anyway
but when she passes by with her mouth opened wide
I am sure she is an opera singer.
I can hear her too. She is a
soprano with a deep vibrato and she can
go up and down, her voice wailing with a pain
that Mozart would shy away from and Gershwin
embrace. Her presence is
alarming and I am taken aback
until I realize that there are too many circles
under her eyes and her tiara is only a cheap
hairband she got on sale for sixty-nine cents.
And her clothes...
I stare at her as she finishes up her yawn
and hurries back to class,
leaving my mouth bitter.