he’s scratching his strings
as if he’s trying
to itch
the sound out.

scratch, scratch,
scratch,
he goes.

the whole orchestra
scrapes with sound.

they’re getting ready
for rapture

so they’ve got to be clean.

In my seat
I open up my chest,
ready to go with them.

My arms spread,
I prime myself for the music -

but as the music pierces my chest
I feel no elevation;
I feel no communion;

no grace with god

just the pounding
of my heartbeat
against my chest

and then it hits me:

you’ve got to have
the itch
before you can
scratch.