Public Republic

 
Photo: Milena Mihaylova

She could feel the need for fame in her fingertips
as if each print were a map of divine destiny,
and each ivory key unlocked a forbidden pathway,
her mother warned would vanquish her soul.

she did not mind the side door she used,
that lead through the greasy kitchen,
hardly noticed, she would excuse herself
in Spanish to the dishwasher,
Who dreams were answered just being here.

The quest for fame smelled of bourbon,
on the wind of a lying husband,
as he breathed his request down her neck,
smiling at the loose change at his table,
In her mothers red heels.

glass jars holding green paper presidents
on the sea of black Steinway,
melting cords rumbled a demanding timbre 
  shaking in her fingertips,
as deep as  a locomotives call,
to the railroad bum,  her brother spirit.