Just a glimpse
of a cardinal red scarf
and cap.
Another guest leaves the party.
Catch that moment.
Ball it up and tuck it into
the pocket of your acrylic sweater,
the grey one with the hood,
the one you wore while you sat
in the corner
in the rocking chair,
so that when you next
thrust your hands into the
too-long sleeves
and the just-right pouches,
you'll find it
and hear the banjo
and the cajon
and the sexy bass solo
and the improvised oboe voices
because the oboe remained unseen.
Taste the peanut soup
and the peppernuts
and the green chili dip,
warm, but not spicy,
spread thickly on crisp Ritz crackers.
Drink the sparkling citrus punch
spiked with Vernor's,
and pick the raspberry seeds
from between your teeth.
From the deep softness of that pocket,
bring it out,
and then you'll sing the harmonies
loudly in your head
and feel the warm, worn wooden floor
bounce beneath your feet.
Yes, for now,
ball it up,
that moment.
Tuck it in,
that memory.
But don't leave it there.
Shake it out
and play it again,
and this time,
you can sing out loud.
You can
take the stage, too.
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