there is no volume loud enough

decibel after ear shattering decibel of some weepy violin,
played perhaps by some girl wearing a yellow peacoat,
on the grasses in Central Park;
Quiet retreat from the halls at Juliard.

there is no volume loud enough
to shake the pop music out of the radio,
to tussle the hairs on the squires' backs,
to rouse the birds from their homespun nests,
to carry some message back home;

the songs it sings, sad, morose, mournful
like anything a violin could produce other then desperate
e minor chords.

and while the wind carries the city stink,
while the wind carries pain and cries of help,
and the city moves and shakes in it’s block by block pulse,
an overwhelming collection of lost and lonely,
packed into street corners and alleyways and a wasteland
of sky scrapers all weeping,

the girl in the yellow coat,
now finger plucking her heart out of that violin,
it bleeds a sweet melody that remains unheard.

for there is no volume loud enough for the wind to carry
home.