Gil, The Musician

a poem

Photo by freestocks on Unsplash

He kicks the pedal

loop.

click.

pop.

Now his head is bobbing.
Two boys play a game
of chess. Two pawns missing.
Their heads are bobbing,
too.

He’s picking to the
rhythm of his pulse.
He’s plucking to the
rhythm of my breathing.

The whole room
is one breath
now.
One heaving chest
one conscience
unified by
his six strings —

We’re all the body
and our energies
are spitting back
at each other.
Flying

back

and

forth

in this field of
thermochaos until
he steadies us
in a series of notes
sets us
in tune.