heat of the day begins to abate,
breath is cooler than the sweaty face,
the sky is all one blue, the final hue
for this day has no more curtain calls,

the orchestra pit is empty and
the last patron of the arts has left,
the auditorium,
his name, was not Elvis,

the road grows quiet and as breezes pick-
up where the heat left off and teases, sweaty
faces with moments of gracious relief,
the flaming ball set out of sight, good grief
it was hot.

sitting still silently, missing her, sees her photo
and begins to cry, the maestro is master of
many things and even some of those he loves,
but he will not get her to understand why
she is not home with him, but in her own private room.

Like the ochestra pit, their home is empty,
no music to be heard, not a sound or a word,
he can't bring himself to sit in that house,
for long with out her by
his side, so he sits on a park bench across from her
room, hoping that one day she will once again,
remember him,
remember music,
remember love,
but above all, be herself...so he will recognize, her again.