Driving on the Solstice, tuning in
to Public Radio, I heard a voice,
legitimately trained, a little thin,
but earnest; the soprano’s every choice

sound, in phrasing and interpretation.
She made me think of High Church, vestments, chimes,
and incense wisping at a congregation—
a proper lullaby for modern times.

Once home, I craved the Voice Squad’s plainer tones:
saw the shadows walk as blank light dimmed,
felt the dank chill in December’s bones,
and tasted pewter on the tankard rim.

Articles by Al Basile