you are my concert

all the undressed choruses of the day each day spill rigidly into this evening performance with its garden trumpets (brassy with indifference) all my unfinished symphonies are played and the players stop halfway mid-crescendo pulling away from the sycophant ears of well-dressed men i will wear old shoes to be disgraceful and listen to each note butchered (thank God there are no bagpipes) i will sew a red and yellow gown while i think of violet to wear -- for myself, to wear to mock ballets and social affairs where all my unskilled movements can be transformed into the sweetness of electric guitars and violins with built-in whistles