Jazz Band Concert, Spring 2009

All these kids standing solo and I can't clap
for anyone but you.  I have kissed every stubborn hair
growing on your chin, have dug nails into that palm.  To
everyone in this room, you are dexterity, you are talent. How
could they know your hands move faster on me? I am the only one
who has seen what those fingers can do -- you can wipe the prints
off those keys with a tissue, but I have spent hours in the shower
trying to scrub them from my skin.  This is your third
time under a spotlight, locked in your display case, ready
to be scrutinized by your teachers, your friends' parents
and me, sitting with your aunt and your cousins pretending
I can look at you without drawing a map of every crevice
under those clothes.  But every time you sit down, you scan the crowd
for a glint of copper like I am too many misplaced good luck charms,
as if my absence would mean you'd forget even how to read.