Monday Poem

I’m Listening to Something

I’m listening to something.
I don’t know what it’s called but it’s Chopin.
It’s a tune Alexa pulled
from the high-capacity byte magazine
of her small black canister
which sits under a lamp upon a table
against the wall (where most of us have spent
at least a little time, in a sweat)
its power umbilical plugged to an outlet,
its invisible wireless wire
stretched taut to a router
its bluesy halo perfectly apropos—
but whatever song this is, it is necessarily of the moment
—and I had asked, after all, for classical,
so maybe Alexa knows more than I
of what this moment must consist

Of what it partially consists are sounds of bells
—not bells really but the closest thing
Chopin could come up with
to be played on something
that sounds bell-like but which (again)
I admit: I haven’t a clue.

Despite having a poet’s surfeit of words
you’d think I would’ve surveyed my ground
before committing to a page, but it’s just
spontaneous magic as I sit here
among Chopin’s luscious frequencies listening,
applying Chopin to the day’s doing,
wondering why Alexa has now, unexpectedly,
shuffled Ahmad Jamal into the mix,
wondering what Ahmad’s poignant,
corazón-filled jazz has
to do with
what this very now
surely is

Jim Culleny