Cigar smoke….hazy, hypnotic, rhythmic,
over which sounds the slow, legato notes
of single malt scotch, and
serenades the serotonin mind-dance
of intoxicated neurons
jamming in waves of electrolove
like 10,000 stratocasters
soaring skyward in a Hendrix haze,
where the steel blue
backdrop of nighttime
strums its bassline
in time
with screeching tires
pounding down the boulevard
persistently
rhythmically
predictably
with their
kick drum-and-snare
backbeat flair,
over which
a lone plane
solos;
under which
an air conditioner slams on—
—chords for the nighttime song.

She sings
to a saccharine major scale;
she loathes
his dark, chromatic notes
of the Phrygian mode….
—he hums them when they argue
like when a grasshopper takes flight
and with kamikaze sight
slams right
into her chest
with a dull, thick thud—
a distorted
power chord
discordant tone,
a flattened note:
black, sinister, nefarious…
perhaps a tritone,
diabolus in musica,
causing her to gasp,
flail her hand,
and shove the bug
—the musical crescendo
(and the evening’s momento)
that decays
back
to the musical score’s
key note
root chord.

He tells her to go inside
and get herself together,
and things will get better….

He’ll stay on the back porch
drink his scotch
smoke his cigar
and listen to
the unfolding
TUNE.