A constellation glints off the window sill prism.
in a downbeat.
Three friends died within an autumnal week of each other. They were younger than I am
All of them lit by glistening sun
all the walking days of their lives.
said - Our matter is made of red giant stars;
evolution of life is caused by their death.
Under October’s low-hanging orb, an old man
fiercely plunks a city trashcan. He might be playing Rachmaninoff.
In the rearview mirror, maybe Monk.
Orange candy corn pylons line the road on my way
to buy Halloween treats; Terence Blanchard’s Choices riffs on the car radio.
In an interlude, Cornel West chews on spoken words.
Emerald green balloons
tumble down Broad Street. They seem to be in a hurry.
Stars scatter across the ceiling, spilling along the wall.
Perhaps my three friends have come to offer a last line
in that moment,
said - The symphony should be like the world;
it must embrace everything.