This morning I could not get out of bed,
so I listened to that song by Noah and the Whale.
The band broke up a year ago, but it is still my favorite
one and I can listen to it in the sheets, and in between
the slits sunshine pulls apart the shades. But my room
is just too bright because last night I drank enough that I
forgot to close the window. I wonder if the birds will blow
inside and sit upon my belly button. They are
rustling in the trees, even the leaves can't seem to
stay on beat as they flutter, float and flitter on one foot
from branch to branch and I think these birds are robins, but
I'm color blind so I really cannot say for sure.

And lately I've been feeling overcast and overcome by
clouds, but Noah wrote this song for me, and if what it says
is true, then softly in A minor the blue skies should soon be
calling.

Below my window I can hear a man in Washington
Square Park, with his patent leather shoes and green velvet
pants to not quite match, keying up to the piano, playing
pieces more percussive than the open air, grounded in his
seat, butt clenched, heels dip down to the cement—his
daily grind of barefoot metal pedal pushing, and I’ve never
even tried to play an instrument.

But before his fingers waltz from black and white to maybe blue,
he holds his breath and closely I can hear him let it go in gust,
a sound more precious maybe than the clinking chords. I squint
to watch the sheet of music cartwheel to the left, a monumental
whoosh and I will not move to find my glasses, but stretch enough
to slam the window shut. I shudder, almost taking out my finger,
but I’m lucky it will only be a bruise.