LatinosUSA

As I leave my doctor’s office
and head south out of Columbia,
I hear a backbeat
joined by light piano and sax,
a surge that could be my heart
responding to the news.

The sky can’t decide
if it wants to be pale azure
or white clouds threaded with gray
as I pass December-bare trees
and brown-tinged cedars
that offer no relief.

That beat beneath him, Miles
moves in on trumpet, forlorn,
as I consider the thought of
more labs, more medication,
stress taking its toll.

And still that heartbeat,
as trumpet gives way to sax,
Adderley and Coltrane,
trading notes high and low,
pulling me out of
and back into the blues.

The piano moves up
from the back, almost struggling
to bring some light into the story,
but at this point, it’s all blues.

The trumpet returns,
just as forlorn, as if telling me
to do something about this,
then fades with that percussive beat
that could be my heart.

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