Sunday Played Her Best

Tossing and turning isn’t so good unless you’re a pancake or a sunflower.

And even church is subject to a schedule. So with that

a change of plans was in order, because I wasn’t about to let time get away with another easy cantrip.

Foggy ears and ringing eyes, I would see twice as well, hear sounds amusing and unsung.

It took a moment or seventeen, but I first caught her tune on the whir of the washing machine.

Ah-rhum-rhum-rhum Ah-rhum-ahrum-ahrum Ah-rhum-rhum-rhum.

Vibrations danced on my bones, turning them a way I hadn’t thought of in a while but should have.

They remembered

the highlights, but had forgotten the whole story, whittled it down to something gauzy and fair, and just a little smug.

A break in the motion brought my heart up fast: Lhul–Roo–Klunk.

A tremor, a tremble, a trombone — that’s where I felt her next: in the mustache

of the man playing brass crowns, and Little Walter’s sensational cup. Play, Walter, play

and take me on a journey of blues and jazz, and all that punchy pizazz. I could never be as cool as you, but my toes don’t know that, so we won’t tell ’em.

I smiled at them; them like children who haven’t any idea their clothes are on inside out.

And backward.

The telephone rang: R-rwaaring-R-rwaaring-R-rawaaring.

. . . . . and I really was surprised to find her there. She sang for a little while

until she finally tired of being ignored. Then she talked to that Voice, but I stopped listening after that because she had already hung up.

I couldn’t blame her.

Swish, swish, swish–plink! He stood over that club, determined as beets

to make air soar and grass stick. Air was in some mood today and rerouted his plans; to Tibet, I think.

He smiled about it.

And of all the sounds I heard, all of Sunday’s finest playing in my ear,

it was your smile, sweet dear, majestic man, that I longed most to hear.

Wordy Wednesday

Dancing Boots

 

If I looked up too quickly, I knew it would be over.

And so I closed my eyes, squeezed them till I saw stars — or maybe I really did.

Toes pointed inward, my feet moved in sloppy ovals,

dancing.

Faster and faster to the music in my head.

 

On lavender’s pigment and nimbus’ laugh, I twirled, moving my arms up and down to see if I might fly.

Pink tulle tickled my thighs and bright blue boots slicked with rain carried me

upward and honest.

I liked honest; she smelled good.

Smiling until my cheeks throbbed for mercy, I spun.

I spun. I spun. I spin.

Try as you might, you could not stop me from spinning; for even the earth decided at that moment to go stagnant and still and stuffy,

I would remain in motion. My delicious ankles

like centrifuges, turning this body, lithe and nimble,

into sun’s gleam, into cat’s purr, into tree’s whisper.

And my boots so, so blue . . . can you see them? They almost tasted melancholy.

Almost,

but not quite.

Because blue is just blue even if love does not requite.

Press on and laugh.

There was never a foe to defeat laughter. She is cynosure;

an intoxicating fragrance given freely, without barter.

I make her mine. All mine.

Her and those boots, they belong to me. And if you could be brave,

your boots will know.