My Thursday truth hides in a mist of overtones—
I know it’s in there, hair slicked back, hiding
the molten core. So I keep blowing until it
whirls my head back, and my truth knows
I’m dizzy. It hears me slobbering up and down
the horn till my shoulders tighten, and
my swagger goes limp. Then my truth
goes so sharp, I forget about tuning altogether
until the whole damn floor drops and I find
myself, down there in the ballroom
shaking my two left feet—waiting
for my truth to waltz me out of Thursday.