JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

Every morning

as sun ascends his podium

and all the instruments of day

stringed and piped and flowing

winged and striped and growing

clearer now – the music starts again

 

Although some of its chords

and rising rhythms I know

as I know the beating of my heart

each morning

I hear them once again

freshly composed just for my ears

 

Listen

a tiny bird

somewhere at his wind-shaken

microphone is singing

his heart out

and yes from somewhere in

my dull flub-dub existence

that old music appreciation class

 

I hear my own

echoing reply

yes, I’m here