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