Camille T. Dungy

Maybe Tuesday Will Be My Good News Day


Fireflies flaring flatted fifths: I’m tuning up
on the picket fence: one moment an empty bell,
one moment a rubber mute.  I’ve practiced
so I know what comes next. The night offers
this much and not an F more:      one       then one
then two.  Belfry bats could be blowing bebop
for all I care  (asymmetry is obsolete…gone.
Gone. Gone, gone.)  Fire in the fire pit, the smoke
catches in his hair.  The rest of the boys go on
without me though if I wanted to chase them I could
breathe clear from the base of my belly and blow.
This isn’t as complicated as it sounds, nor are those cats
in the alley skatting.  I’m all tuned up and off the fence.
His solo is over and I’ve practiced so I know
what comes next:  One/Then one/Then two.
It’s that simple.