They sing for infinity,
faced and staring mouth-to-mouth
to craft the echoed diction ever sharper.
They enunciate scores of syllables
in thirds and fifths and octaves,
matching sleepy tongue to deadened lip
once more, again, another time…
They are unabashedly infatuated
with an acute ability to harmonize so faultlessly
passing listeners shiver;
a strict timing synchronized:
exact atomic vocal clocks…
the clear and stirring possibility
of any manner of perfection.
They sing on boulevards
near corners where grocers stop mid-sale
and turn, miscalculate, or smile;
They sing for clusters of commuters:
eyebrow-raising concerts a cappella
call so sweetly that some settle,
missing subway trains in trade
for compositions crooned
as praise, as prayer,
as something witnessed, meat
for future bragging rights:
I saw them back in 'fifty-eight
when they were still just Tom & Jerry.
All Writing.Com images are copyrighted and may not be copied / modified in any way. All other brand names & trademarks are owned by their respective companies.
Generated in 0.06 seconds at 6:08pm on Nov 10, 2024 via server WEBX1.