The Serenade Forgets to Pose
For the requested street-band palette,
imagine a trumpet straightening its tie.
It has prepared a splendid entrance.
Three finger snaps interrupt:
not so fast.
A flute slips past the ceremony,
light on its feet.
The saxophone takes a longer sentence,
turning one corner of the tune
into somewhere worth lingering.
Underneath, taps and claps
keep their small appointments.
They need not make a grand announcement
to give the other voices
something steady to lean against.
Let a smoky voice enter
with less certainty than swagger.
Let the romance have a little nerve,
the playfulness a little ache.
A cheerful rhythm need not insist
that everything is settled.
This is an imagined arrangement,
not the sound of a finished recording.
The request supplies its colors;
the performance remains to be heard.
Still, the sketch can make a choice:
leave room for a phrase
to change its mind halfway through,
for a bold note to soften,
for the flute to answer
without agreeing completely.
At last the trumpet loosens its tie.
The snaps let it finish.
What began as an entrance
becomes a conversation:
not a flawless declaration,
but an invitation
with enough warmth to approach
and enough uncertainty
to leave the answer free.
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