my voice teacher approached me
in aisle nine of the western supermarket
as i was serenading the cereal boxes
with a favorite stevie wonder tune.

she tapped her chin nervously
as i reached the segundo
passagio, a thinning tenor
f sharp, which is always
a challenge to negotiate.

somehow she knew
the passage
could not be threaded
through any one of the
cheerios, much less
the thickets of
shredded
wheat.

her exit
through the
aerosols aisle
managed to dry
my throat and
cut the time
to our coda.

i never saw her again.

for years,
i pondered
what could i
have done to
succeed with those
impossible bridge notes.
just often enough to keep my
teacher off her anxiety medication.

then i was hit with an insight.
one october day while standing
on highland avenue with my
buddy, sam.

he was
whistling
like a
virtuoso
flutist,

his lips
puckered
so perfectly
as shirtless men
on the thoroughfare
jogged through the ticker
tape parade of autumn leaves.

every note was carved so beautifully
to fit the shape and contour of the men
whom he adored. even more than the harps
of his highland dreams.

then it dawned on me. i need a bare-chested man,
or better yet, a crew of topless m-men around me while i
navigate the segundo passagio phrases in 'il mio
tesoro'.

oh, to arc my way across
every italian vocal bridge, sweep
into the high range with the mezzo
voce ease of kathleen battle. if even to
break into falsetto like a raging queen of
the night before settling into a basso
profundo leaving every jogger-
suitor and even cole
porter begging
for more.

i'd become a diva,
a divo,
and
don giovanni
all rolled into one.

i'd become
me-me-me-me-me-me-me

me.

Hi & welcome to the forum, I'm guessing you are a poet? What shall we call you?

Happy writing,
Laura