Chorale

a typist sits at black and white keys
and waits for the words to come
tapping out a melody of
crashing waves
eyes are closed to the sound of
a horn being blown somewhere not quite
distant
images of nighttime
seeping in like coffee grounds
a man with his saxophone on a window ledge

in New York City perhaps

or Chicago
below him, a woman in her late-no,
early forties teaches a tango, or a waltz
- eventually it will come-
tapping again, hearing the sound
a tap dancer moves, no, glides across a stage
but has no audience
here it comes, an audience of thousands
for an audience of one
birds on a wire
form a chorus line, not a dance, but notes
compose a symphony
but sing cacophony
before the end.