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 
                                                                                                                 upon us.
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.