Say for example,
you ride an escalator in a department store,
decorated with Mother’s Day hearts and flowers,
on a mission to buy your mom an extra-wide slot toaster,
when piped music floats across the airwaves.
You can press both palms against your ears
or poke index fingers in each auditory canal
but the melody will sneak in,
the way a cheeky sunbeam
slips a thumb through a slit in a blind.
You can stay home,
close all windows,
throw away your wind chimes
but as you sit on the deck with a mug of milky chai,
a workman mending a burst pipe
will whistle.
There’s nothing you can do about it.
Music will pry open your heart,
bound tight with sorrow like cabbage leaves,
and there will come a day,
perhaps as you drive across the Golden Gate Bridge,
with sunlight kissing your face and wind mussing your hair,
when you hear a song on an adjacent car radio
and before you know it,
your fingers are tapping the wheel.