With the Sounds of Music
Motion in the music in the motion,
Motoring there, through the fun
along the one-oh-one.
Sun on the run, not done,
but needing to be missed, soon.
And soon there’ll be kissed tunes,
scattering through the chatter,
amidst the purposeful pattering
of the winsome waitstaff.
Andrew in blue, blue jeans, blue shirt,
blurted blue through a gold horn,
worn old tunes made new.
Solos show souls where to roll,
be here, be there,
sizzle with the air.
Looking in cooking in
the American Songbook:
“Maybe Tuesday will be
my Good News day.”
Who’d choose to wait,
when Sunday could be
your Good Fun day?
“Someday she’ll come along”,
someday I’ll hum along.
“You don’t know what love is.”
Who won’t show what love is,
how slow love is,
pondering the wondering
of women’s wiles,
while men think they’re
Take a night flight
to the dawning of a day in Rio.
She knows the glow he’ll go for,
the glee of cachaça by the sea,
she free and salty
in bed near the beach,
reaching to touch,
mouths in musical motion again,
bravada bossa bodies
climbing up towards Corcovado.
Then there’s a sway in walking away,
schisming between rhythms of kisses,
missing the making of mischief.
Through the double doors,
and across the way, way across the Bay,
focus fading, letting light leave with night,
goodbyes to boys bugling,
hard, parting from hearts.
Starting from birth,
worth the billions of breaths
we pay, up to the day of death.