ATARAXIA
There is a tune half-heard
around the curl of a corner
half-remembered. Mum leans forward
out of the armchair. Distant bells,
a Crosby song, something whistled
once in a dark street in the rain?
The story ends; she dropped it
somewhere, cracked it, missed the point,
some crucial phrase that ran
into the fog of her once-hearing.
Or slipped, maybe, beneath the tread
of the tune, half heard.
11:23:08 PM 
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