voice practice

in the shed
the paint on the walls is key lime green
dust is everywhere
except the air
and my voice
can fall on the floor
and clatter among the bikes and lawnmowers
and hidden Heinekens,
welcome, and full,
and alive...

and in the shed
my voice shakes a spiderweb
Its tiny tenant just patrols
that fragile home
never once considering
this situation - this all might be too much -
not at all, no - just rebuilding -
spinning on

beside my vibrato

in the shed
lizards line the window
and do their red-necked dances
little lime backs betraying
thoughtless joy,
and the orange tree I raised
peeks in, breaking up the sun -
and that light kisses me
almost as nice as my lover can.
It coaxes,
calms,
balms,
invites me,
"be louder!" -

In the shed
I know they can hear me
but I can sing
like I'm the only one in the world.