Plaza, Cloverdale

In the plaza,

the stage stands empty.

A lattice of shadows

sharpens too-bright sun.

I see you there,

your back against the pillar

that holds the roof

dressed in your latest find,

a shimmering shirt

you wear proudly

as a badge of lost weight.

Your head rests on

still warm cement

you soak in music

through your pores.

Amplified base

plays your skin

like a drum.

"There's my seat" you said,

laughing,

and walked to claim it

racing unseen competition.

You caught the bassists eye

and grinned

falling in love with music

all over again.

And now the stage stands empty.

Your seat empty

or maybe your spirit lingers

for one last

blue note

of music

in the evening air.