daylight come and me wanna go home

Sitting alone in the couch tonight, I slowly realize that I can hear someone singing. 

Somewhere in the house, a man is singing.

It has a muted quality, as though it is coming from very far away.

I stand for a moment and listen. 

I recognize it. The clear voice, the calypso intonation is unmistakeable.

Someone is listening to Harry Belafonte, somewhere.

But, of course, no one in the house is listening to Harry Belafonte, not tonight.

And yet, there it is.

After a few minutes, the music fades.