Play for me in blue, sing to me in blue.
Let me overhear your lovers asking
with blank stares just what you’re trying to do
with your rectangles, squares, multitasking
angles like short airstrips or dead-end streets.
It’s like me smearing makeup on some old
fence, Mathilda might say. A less-discreet
ex-Marine buddy could laugh aloud, scold
you for turning to a faggot’s work. Price
of opening your heart. How they’d change their
tune were your pallet a music sheet, sliced
notes like sculpted aqua stars tossed out there
for all to hear through your trumpet paint brush,
your canvas the air, their eyes now ears, hushed
mouths as you play and sing for them in blue.
Roger Armbrust
August 10, 2010
