by Michelle Chen
The solo helps itself up and
sails overhead.
Traces a perfect arc,
dribbles down,
drawing on contours of
curved brass.
Cymbals quiver.
Rhythm reduction,
distilled into
beats hung upon
just the right moment.
(There.
Just now. You catch that?)
Lilting, rocking,
tipping the scales,
pregnant modulation.
It creeps.
A smile onto
wrinkled
sueded air
half sour, half
sweet.
We. Notes collected, gathered,
folded diagonally in distraction.
Senses turned up, like collars undone,
exhaling a praise song.
There. Just now.
The audience steeped in translucent dark,
rolled up, smoldering.
Michelle Chen is a freelance journalist and a native New Yorker.
