Half Dreamed
A boy sits on the floor dressed in strange livery
Of thick, plush cloth in red and gold.
Afraid and near to tears, he waits for me.
I wade through the cacophony, the storm,
Between the drops of madness coming down like rain,
The crowds that open cases and run out into the hall.
I kneel beside him; black and white
Are thrown against the red and gold.
His silver tuba flashes on my dark jacket.
I work; this is his first concert.
Within a quarter of an hour, within ten minutes,
Two; these mangled valves must move,
But now they are a flattened insect's legs.
My white shirt shines, fresh-ironed yesterday,
Tucked into pressed slacks over studded boots
The hue of the abyss that I polished as the sun sank low.
My tie is straight.
My hands unbend, remake.
I am Order; I walk through the tempest, and, unharmed,
I carry on; the colors on my vest,
The band, the place the day,
Are all irrelevant; now, clear and cold,
I save the night, the show for him.
The dogs begin to how, and jeans are scattered on the floor.
I barely hear; a paper ball,
This morning's news flies past my ear.
Its path bends
Around our warded circle on the dusty tile.
I wind something in wire and pray.
They move; it fades away,
Another miracle well done.