Rehearsal

Today I woke early
And stood with coffee at the kitchen window
To watch a single girl, hair wild
With wind and rain
Hurrying along with a violin bow tucked
Securely under one arm.

I thought, where is she going
That requires such rush, such
Determined strides through the wet,
Frown lines creasing her forehead
And drops of water filling the gaps
With no violin?

Perhaps the bow was forgotten, and,
Irritated, she carries it for a friend.
Her husband the musician, who always leaves behind
His keys, his glasses, the sheet music.
Perhaps she is thinking, "This is the last time
I will tell him. This is the last time."

Perhaps there is a rehearsal
And she is late-- five, ten minutes.
The other musicians will be waiting:
The reed without the saxophone,
The pick without the guitar,
The bell without the horn.

I will arrive tardy by an hour or more,
coming in on the damp air.
I will bring my pen
And a single piano key
And we will play the sound of clouds
Moving off toward the coast.