| |
tosses a riff
saying
life is a slipshod serenade pinching
pride, bruising the undertones.
Her velvety voice hums a reality
he doesn’t coax from his sax. Clinging
to resistance, he improvises.
She slows for the melody, punching
lead lines. Negating bitter and mouthing
sweet, she tosses vibrato at him.
Bluesy contralto. No room for
anything but gut-grabbing emotion.
A throb of longing duels with
music crying his head.
|
 |