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.