Richard Fein

 Beyond the Wind Chime

Wind chime in the half-open window across the apartment complex courtyard where the translucent red curtain still hangs, gently swaying.

And beyond the window, beyond the curtain, beyond the wind chime, is that bedroom.

In the dark recess of that room, I see an unused packing crate propped against the wall where the bed used to be.

That bed, that now empty room, how clearly I can make out all the details.

In less than a year, rented then abandoned, before the lease was up.

I gave her that wind chime which I now barely hear.

But hear it I do, tolling a dissonant metallic tune.

And I’ll always hear it

after the new tenant tears it down.

Richard Fein

Sleight of Hand Action

 A good con man can deliver quality, not the worthless wares for sale but the huckster’s suavely spoken pitch.

Common wisdom decrees, “It's what's inside that count.” But isn't packaging a multibillion dollar industry?

And doesn’t every candidate glance at his public relations team before opening his mouth?

Choirs, orchestras and big name singers, embellish even prayers as if the creator couldn't produce his own variety show.

In fact, he already has.

Life itself is the prestidigitator’s greatest extravaganza.

Hocus-pocus, it appears like a rabbit out of a hat;

Abracadabra, it vanishes like the lady in the box.

Richard Fein

A Cacophony of Drummers

 Four by a park bench: an earphone hugging their temple, a private harmony playing in their brain, eyes closed and ensconced in a fortress of sound.

A jerky choreography of discordant souls – A chorus line none out of step.

But this ballet of undisciplined gyrations is no Saint Vitus' dance of the mad.

Yesterday’s Walkmans are today’s ipods. And tomorrow wired telepathy will wiggle its way into their ears.

No more singing around crackling campfires, or gathering in the park, or listening to blaring radios.

But my unwired ears hear what the world hears—

cars honking, someone waiting a long time on line yet saying please go ahead of me, a mother scolding her child, another says softly I love you.

A ragged man screams aloud, another sings pleasantly, birds twitter in the trees, a cat wails to shut tightly midnight windows.

My ears hear this trespass of sweet and sour sounds.

But tomorrow I will keep pace with my companions

for the price of ipods is going down.

Richard Fein