The Concert
dancing guitar, vibrant percussion, cello.
The percussion seizes me.
Fingers cymbals drums,
the heel of palm.
The cello swallows a sudden smile,
leeeeans into her bow.
She risks another peek.
His hand arcs through the space between
She is a drum, his fingers,
hard between her shoulder blades
soft in the small of her back.
She answers with her vibrato.
Cymbal chime and deep base note, the guitars dance.
She looks up again. His head tipped back
his gaze descends, lingers, on shoulders
dancing in the second row.
His eyes flame, his hand arcs through the space between.
That woman is old enough to be his mother!
Shameless, shoulders rock to his rhythm...
this room is his tonight.
Cello forgotten, embarrassed betrayed.
Why did she wear this top?
The piece turns on cello’s bow, the guitars
pause to catch their breath.
She draws him back, musical comfort foods, a little wine,
sounds she’s never made before.
He looks up, their eyes dance
his hand arcs through the space between
Este Mundo - oct./99
