Baselines

Baselines

 

Let your fingers do the walking;

let the music do the talking;

somebody more gifted than me might say.

And look -  here’s one busy with her pen:

more likely using an artificial aid,

to mimic music once played,

because ink is effort, it’s styli passed

like sharpened needles made of brass

to play acetate at 78,

and manuscript in beautiful, cursive swirls

no longer pulls your boys or girls.

Her notes transposed, all lines, all numbers,

you’re wondering why there, not here,

as if there’s ways to do, ways to go,

she’s proper nodding like she knows

how clefs are trapped in corners,

to turn base metal into performers,

using geometry, right-angled rulers

while tsetses snap and bite at necks.

Ah, give it a rest, we’ll dance instead,

let’s figure the thing out by ear,

let our digits push and place

where they will, hitting strings with calluses,

scales and balances,

And raise our pitch a step or two,

with fingers that know what to do.