Cymbalism
The darkness is radiant with streetlights.
The houses have their windows open,
the neighborhood is listening to itself.
A band is practicing in a basement,
their noise amplified and contained.
Bagpipes blast through a screen door,
a recording. A dog’s screechy exclamations.
A landline ringing four times, ceasing.
The band has finished. The clatter
of a cymbal against the floor, it must have
fallen, they must be packing up,
snapping shut the latches on guitar cases.
The white dog down the street bounds
out through a door held open for him,
and he charges the lawn, the bushes,
the pavement, driven by glee and gratitude
that is irrepressible. Who can he thank
next. Where should he direct all this joy.
Oh the dog has such presence in this poem! I can just see it!
ReplyDeleteThe poem also reminds me of a conert I was at where the trombone solo got a response from all the local dogs!
concert I mean, not conert
ReplyDeleteMagical! I remember my old lab Smokey used to always "sing" to my saxophone. Dogs clearly have a different level of hearing. That's all I can say without ruining the souffle.
ReplyDeleteI'm with the white dog! Sweet poem.
ReplyDeleteI can hear those cymbals!
ReplyDeleteThe last 3 stanzas are immaculate, or is that the right word?! :) They're like a ripe plum, perfect.
ReplyDelete