It seems as though you wearily climb stairs
then slide so slowly down curved banister
the varnish squeaks, touching carpet with care
on balls of your stocking feet en arrière
to audience, pirouette en attitude
facing us with eyes revealing ancient
rivers, intimate stemless Harmon mute’s
glowing caress diffusing your trumpet’s
breath through us. We rest in your shadowed cove
even when you bitch, your spitting spurts curt
yet kind as kisses on the ear. Above
all else, we adore your smile as you flirt
with stars in heaven, then gently sigh when
you fall in love, lark soaring in soft wind.
Roger Armbrust
February 2, 2008
