Sun battered and faded
tangerine seat cushion pokes through red thread
like the neck of a cello behind seldom played strings.
One stroke across the body still loosens
a note so far throated
it shakes the walls and
blows the doors off history and hearts
like a page slipped from the desk of
the Eastern hemisphere's finest composer.
The back streets of Chicago
blear into four four time and measures
turn into spans of red light green light
games of rover as a seat belt
promises to hold beating wings of insides in and
little else.
With windows down and the hiss,
a blow off valve cymbal strike
in a sea of timpanic foolery,
daring a smile to strike
the question
have you ever ridden a white horse
finally has it's answer.
