Before a plan could be formalized a town appeared--
calamity of streets, dogs barking backwards
and a general washing of hands that led to more washing
then something vaguely political like air balloons
and rumors of public weather.
Gasoline ran the avenues and word was that soon there would be music
and everywhere a humming or a clearing of throats
as if what was prophesied was finally
So we hitched up our gabardines, grabbed the nearest oboist
looking for the precise angle of entry.
What we heard was a distant tatter of songs
arranged as a march, the loose syntax of warm rain bees fuzzy with jazz
nuzzling the river azaleas.
All along we had wanted the next thing
and now that it was almost here
our attention turned to the waitress’s narration
of our town’s architecture its fallen porticos and maze of rambling rooms.
It made us want to sleep in separate beds coddled by various unsponsored silences
so that nothing could disturb the popular music playing inside us,
nothing could disturb the music inside.