Daddy Choirboy
Because I couldn’t stand hearing you attempt Henley’s or Frey’s or Timothy B. Shit’s high notes on whichever guaranteed Eagles tune was on the car radio;
because you even knew you couldn’t approximate Brad Delp rawk n rawl yelping “SIGNNNNNED THE RECORD COMPANY CONTRACT” in “Rock and Roll Band” by Boston— yet tried again and again with ever worsening results;
because your voice sounded brittle as the bones of the Life Alert carrying senior you never gracelessly aged into:
when we drove to medical appointments, we listened to Classical WETA despite that your singing made you so happy you went straight from the hospital to church—your last Christmas Eve, 2018— to sing with the choir against the doctors’ wishes.
Classical music didn’t change much at all: your larynx still vibrated along to the instrumental remains of whichever dead white guy I dunno the name of,
like some warbling, bee-sized bird whom I’d like to place in my open palm and slam my fist down like a carnival hammer—
the violent force shooting a ball skyward, (like a drunken cowboy’s yee-haw bullet) to ring a bell: DING DING DING
Instead of an officially-licensed, stuffed, franchise furry friend, I’ve won the prize of a swift and painless death— death for your music. I hope you are singing wherever you are or aren’t. I miss aspects of your voice.
I would prefer you to speak, but welcome even your tone- deaf noise.
Devin Taylor holds a B.A. in English and minors in Creative Writing and Psychology from Washington College (Chestertown, MD). His writing can be found in Gargoyle, Jersey Devil, The Southampton Review Online, and elsewhere. He is working on two poetry collections: DEAD DAD INC and MAJOR LEAGUE GAMING.