Somewhere in this world
there is music playing.
Somewhere, a pianist is enraptured
by what he is creating,
his piano alive,
music swirling in the air,
tangible swirls of mauve
and teal and lavender.
And buttercup.
Yes – lots of buttercup.

Somewhere in this world there are people dancing
to music in shades of orange in red,
full skirts swirling like fire lilies.
I think their skin must be the color of cinnamon
and they do not speak English.

Somewhere in this world
there is someone standing on a street corner,
singing to put dinner on the table
he doesn’t have.
A Starving Poet.

(The one difference between him
and the Starving Artist
is that the Artist is able to coax
a girl into lying nude to capture her beauty
in oils or charcoal,
or pencil, if he truly is a Starving Artist.

No Poet I have ever met
has been successful in doing the same with words.)