He Sings

January 21st, 2023

Holding close to the coastline now,

high up on a stagecraft of

metal, wood and wire–

He Sings.

The jumbotron screen squeezes in,

eavesdropping on a breath

dragged through a velvet operation.

It sounds like Ragged sewn in Smooth,

Worn-in like a buckskin shoe.

It hovers above fine sea-salt and sand-stone,

Set free upon some whistles of desire.

You see, they’re calling him – so

He summons melody through a sunburnt JazzMaster,

Leans up towards the sky,

led by a turquoise third eye.

He opens his mouth,

Channeling indigo,

channeling navy,

channeling cerulean—

He is born with the dusk,

dying with the night,

like a comet burning for

just a little more light.

He quivers, he stings–

The Band—they sing,

All clad in their black and pearl snaps,

shoulders swaying to and ‘fro,

Holding down the two and four–

The crowd standstill.

I walk slowly back

off the black scaffolded decks,

away from the background on wheels,

So much feeling I cannot contain—

the volume of such Heartbreak,

the timbre of such Joy,

So Vast and undulating,

So heart-like and swollen.

I linger,

we wait,

he quiets,

he stays.

One more, they say–for the hope brigade!

He Sings.