The rain drips down
on a Sunday morning
much like any other Sunday
dreary, drab.
somewhat all together,
maybe, lonely.

You left your records
on the second shelf from the bottom
where I alphabetized them.
Your haphazard returns left
Clapton next to Thelonious
on the other side of Dizzy.

But this Sunday,
Holiday is on holiday
and all I hear is the rain
drip, drip, drip
no ringing splashes,
no weeping guitars.
Silence an ever present reminder
of the music you made in your presence.

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