FALL 2007

Joan Higuchi

No swatches for displacing dust
or remnants meant
to swab up globs of paint
the rags we fancied effervesced
commanded by extent
of feet that barely met the pedals.
Our fingers tried to catch the keys
that spilled out tunes decreed
when prompted by the tiny holes
of upright's semi-automated feed
from stacked up paper roles.
They strutted with a taint
of decadence unlike the quaint
old-fashioned tunes, hot swing
or blues with blowsy hint
but nothing else
could set hands hoppin'
like the syncopated
rhythms of ol' Scott Joplin.

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