The guitar player watches
the mandolin player
with anticipation
and a little smile beneath
his mustache
as the mandolin
sings its aria

The mandolin player 
watches the guitar player then
as the guitar sings
its own version of the song

The drummer smiles,
eyes closed
as though relaxing
alertly, in a boat,
loving the sun on his face,
listening with his whole body
to the current’s deep voice

The bass player
is an expert
at the tiller;
his is the ground
beneath the river,
the muddy bottom 
where life is made.
                        

The cello’s voice – both warm and keen
caroms off the octaves’ walls.

I thought the song would carry me
to sleep; instead I lie awake

and wander the corridors of music,
trying the knobs, following the sounds

along the tightrope of each clef,
listening deep to the voices of the strings

that join the mind’s imaginings with
the breath of wind through birch leaves,

the sun’s shifting gaze reaching down 
to the creek’s bottom, leaf-strewn

and smooth as the prelude, sandy,
sun-dappled, fresh as the saraband.
                        

The harpsichord 
is the red-haired boy
bouncing around
on the balls of his feet
cowlick flapping.

The accordion
is the fat girl
with oiled ringlets
and shiny shoes
playing a Mexican polka
while the pretty girls
whirl around the gym
in the thrilling arms
of handsome boys.

The bagpipe
with leathery udder
and dangling teat
has something worthwhile
to say but people avoid him
all the same, except
the very most odd.

The pipe organ
is the mad professor
with overactive
hands and feet
and a tower
of coil-spring hair
soaring toward
the nose of God.