I dream of my hometown.
Walking through these streets again,
listening to music floating from open windows like light.
Harmonica, accordion.
Walking these streets where I know every corner
Like my own body,
where I left my thoughts hanging on walls, buildings
Like a pair of shoes tossed into a tree
–
I dream taking harmonica lessons again.
Walking to the old conservatoire with my harmonica.
Heavy doors of the old brown brick building push them open,
the wooden floor cracks, the large windows say welcome back.
Music behind closed doors accordion, harmonica
The workshop in the basement where I brought my harmonica
when there was something wrong with it.
–
I dream, I am home.
Harmonica sound pouring through the window of
the apartment over the flower store right by the graveyard
with the old chestnut trees.
Music holding me like an embrace as I walk over the cemetery.
Home is never home,
it’s just a memory and a sound coming to my ear
dancing in the air, like dust.
And I know, someday, I will play again my harmonica.
Poem Style: Free Verse
Note: My hometown is Trossingen, Germany, where they are manufacturing harmonicas and accordion.
