Maestro

Tony’s tone flew

in the face of white noise,

fat as Philadelphia’s history,

sleek as the horizon beyond

a flagship at full mast.

 

He rehearsed, in his sleep,

what was needed to wake.

The dream a counterpoint

to dawns and noons

and dance.

 

The air more important

than fingers, the ears

 inside the heart

smiling, every echo

cymballic.

 

 

Find a way to be wealthy

and compare it

to this weave. The weight

and the wait of breath

blowing blues.

 

An isolated note

makes the chamber weep

at expiration. It’s

another’s turn

to see sharp.