Cymbalism

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.