Roommates are musicians,
Real ones,
Not like me,
Who only makes sounds.
I always stop by the pantry
Even when I am not hungry nor thirsty,
Because I want to talk music.
It is one thing to listen to,
Another thing to write,
And a whole ’nother thing
To talk music.
To talk something that is
Untalkable.
But we always manage to keep the conversation going.
We hop into a driverless train, and as we keep talking,
Our carriage morphs into a cabinet.
Music talks are wild.
Like this morning, the trombone player and I
Talked about how he changed the slide-end bumper,
Fixed our coffee machine,
With the hands just off of Respighi.