Poetry of Issue #7        Page 20

Little Things Mean a Lot

Slow and steady,
the old turntable waltzed.
Her favorite chanteuse
sang “Little Things Mean a Lot.”
She never wanted diamonds or pearls.
She liked it when
he blew her a kiss or touched her hair.
Little things meant a lot—
a walk in a park, a love song at night,
a glass of California wine.
She would smile at dogs, feed the stray cats,
let the summer rain soak her to the skin.

Slow and steady,
the old turntable waltzed.
Her favorite chanteuse
sang “Little Things Mean a Lot.”
But she was gone,
and his grief had no place to go.
Her cat kept time with the music,
purring as she rubbed against him.
He blew her a kiss, whispered,
“Kitty, come to Daddy.”
The summer rain
danced without end.

  Patricia Carragon