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Piano Magic
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Snow Drums
Three on the backseat as we drive home from rehearsal
There's snow on the drums
The snare shudders like a cold ghost between my mittens
In the trunk, guitars slide like dead over dead
It's stopped snowing, we think we see foxes
I breathe a canvas on the window to write your name on the landscape
The sky is a gray flint from coast to coast with birds frozen in
Magic Trees share the dashboard with a Playdoh Jesus
Grapelli and Reinhardt lock horns on the radio
I draw a black skull on my jeans, Not thinking, through to the skin
The headlamps come on at five
I miss you bad
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