(an old poem)
The line winds are coming.
They rumble like planes
hidden in the clouds.
Out the window my car sits
naked to predicted bombardiers.
I go about my day with this
musical score thundering
In the background like some
dark opus filling with
the conductor–hair flying–
and set up on his heels
as he raises his arms—
baton swirling–
stealing from his compatriots
instruments challenged
beyond compromise or
all signs of fair play and
emancipated to the breaking
within the storms suspended
in the conductor’s arms.
©Roseroberta 5/2013