every morning the sounds of otis redding reach my ears

from the neighbor’s basement it blows in--

up through the grape vines and the wires crossing the sky between us. electric madness.

pulsing,

sighing,

longing,

singing out. otis is best when heard through the air.

i  pull up my hair in a respectable chignon and sway to the crooning,

i adjust the mirror just right so i can see if my make-up is being applied correctly;

i feign heartache.

and, if i can afford the time, make up a story to go with it.

my cup of tea with the wild root extract gets cold and i muse that the neighbor must be ready to

leave for work, as the sound has just been turned down.

i pull on my coat and get ready to start the day.  i will forget about the tea until nighttime--

which by then has made a stain on my dresser.

it doesn’t matter.  the lakes are large here.  big enough for a man’s voice to fill..

or a thousand cups of tea.