The last note sounded, a long tone
sustained, descrescendo’d,
and the dance ends, the dancers
leaving and the band packing
up our stands and lights, mutes and
music and horns, and I begin
my own long ride north to home in
silence and darkness,
the dance tunes lingering in my
head fading away to quietude.
And on my radio now, a classical
station, Bach and Vivaldi,
something Baroque, Handel or Telemann,
an unknown composer
from another era, an orchestra, a
soloist from today, driving out
the pulse of a jazz drummer pushing
and the upper register of brass,
loud above the staff, reduced to
strings and bows, eloquent,
calming, multi-speaker stereo
taking me in, enclosing me in music.
The city lights and traffic rushing
by are left behind, and the road
advances into the darkness, lit
only by my high beams, interrupted
by the sleepy little towns asleep
now, unaware of my passing through,
and a rare car approaching,
overtaking me, here in the concert hall
of my car, auto pilot, cruise
control, carrying me north, carrying me home.
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