Reviews & Opinions

More Poems About Music
Feb., 2014

Chuck JoyTHE FIRST DAY AFTER

the first day after
the party’s over
is always the hardest
every time

every single bottle
emptied, gathered in a blue bag
ashtrays washed
put away

the stereo lid propped open
like an open coffin but
no music

sometimes dull rain
taps gray windows
or floorboards creak
as if spirits
of departed friends
are dancing still

children
parents
wander dark halls
oddly silent

their thoughts
sluggish at best
moods low
at the bottom of a big hill

waiting if impatiently
for the next smile

*****************************************************************

EVERYTHING IS SEX

I’ve asked my friend the trumpet player
to hang around with me, just at the edge of the screen
playing with heartbreaking sadness
sustaining blue note after blue note
suits my mood

the morning sky a clever duplicate of sunset
my body thirsty for whiskey downtown
behind a red sign blinking COCKTAILS, a long window fronting the street
a long bar inside the long window, staffed by an Irish-American
gentleman wearing a green vest over a white shirt

instead I’m on line for coffee at a Starbucks far from Broadway
the lady two ahead of me reading her order from a torn paper
stalling the barrista, correcting herself, becoming befuddled, so confused
she stopped, pulled a cellphone from her purse, held up one finger
then called somebody, asking for help

my trumpet player gone crazy by then
his blues jumped the track, blowing angry crescendos
the silky tone still smooth except around the edges
tempo accelerating building building a swelling ocean
gathering suspense, would he finish before she did?
everything is sex

Chuck Joy
February 2, 2014