Balconies
There was the voice,
Ready to sing poetry
In a beautiful timbre.
There was the guitar,
Its nylon strings resonating
Beyond the wooden chamber.
There was the violin —
The stringed cousin,
Buoyant or melancholy on a whim.
There was the drum,
One with the heartbeats,
The neighbours didn’t complain.
There was the piano,
Its monochrome keys
Painted in technicolour.
There was the trumpet,
Loud, shrill, fun —
The life of the party.
There was the saxophone,
Splashing pizzazz as it
Waded through the warm air.
There was the triangle,
Polishing the melody
With its eloquent ting.
There was the clap
Of hands — some on beat,
Some off.
And then there were two children,
Watching the twilight fade into purple,
Waiting.
For his mother — nurse,
For her father — doctor,
Wondering who would come home first.
