4/16/25: song of thyself or something

Today's prompt. I'm going to share this poem by Victoria Chang.

every footfall is the sound of timpani, rolling along, 
almost an announcement, crescendo and build

to nothing. really. the leaves let the leaves go;
they aren't coming back. really.

the sterile backdrop. clean, uniform brick buildings.
the echo of everyday living. really. minor revelations from
speakers with bit parts. brain rot and rot stew, counter
melody with a song for whoever is. really. listening

that sun, hazed out in his own success, he might be
the maestro. he might be the audience. really. who are
we doing this for, anyway? coming and going, spewing
staccato sticking points and molasses-tinged motifs. really.

incidental jazz. this might be magic. "honk if you hear me."

feel that grit in the back of the throat. really. smog's bounty.
horns letting loose. be free. grumble and step and grumble
and repeat. the sheet music calls for. really. such actions.

follow along. soon we are all instruments. really. enough
doubt. set voice to air, watch it melt into a symphony.
let it slur and detach itself from meaning. let the music
grip our spirits. we are held in its sway. really