She was so angry

The voice she was given

Didn’t have the chords,

Didn’t have the strings,

Only a cello can answer to a violin

But only because the bass backs down,

Her chirpy voice couldn’t fill a chubby diner mug,

Didn’t have that deep mocha flavor

That mixes, funnels in the heat from steam,

The way Ella sings to Miles,

The way a whistle on the street comes at the perfect time,

When the metal prong

Submerges in the cup of cold cream

Her voice finds the stage, against velvet, the neon reflects off one rouged cheek,

the chirp softens into art,

The perfect swank,

The sultry hour as the white sun dips down

And the orange glow of the moon trades places,

Like Chicago in the summer

With a slow drum beat, like honey

Miniature metal brooms just brush the surface,

Slowly teasing the fireflies to come out

Her voice, softer than wind

scurrying across the night

works magic somehow