(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