by Mary E. Lowd
When he sings and plays
He bares his soul
In ways he doesn’t know how
During the day, when the sun is out
But under the moonlight
With strings thrumming
Under a strumming paw
He loses his shyness
Forgets the pride
That holds him back
Somehow his singing voice has a knack
For telling truths
He doesn’t usually even see
He doesn’t know how to be
Himself, without the revealing chaos
Of an improvised song