Harps
Trumpets out each bay window.
And a glass of water (with cucumber).
I walk him downstairs
with a keyboard, hail him a cab.
He’ll play a few bars
(lemon and lime, ba-da-boom, etc.)
Harps! My fingers bled each night
during rehearsal. It doesn’t matter.
You still get played.
Sometimes it’s glorious.
Touch my skin
underneath this spot
where I shaved
and maybe someday they’ll find a tumor.
Read it aloud.
We’ve got medicine for that, too.
Angels’ wings draw nigh.
A new set in time for breakfast.
