Life has no score. The song of life
is on the lips of an aged woman bent
upon a bus stop bench, its street light notes
on telephone wire ledger lines;
is in the rugged shuffle of a janitor's shoes
on descending steps, its clef a weary mop
propped against a stairway rail; is in the whistle
of a little boy sitting cross legged
on a railway siding, its sheet the earth
itself erased by his gritty palm.

Life has no score. The song of life
is handed down from sun to sun
to rest behind a cardboard will work sign
on an exit ramp, is buckled in a top coat
chasing a late to work bus, is put out
on the curb sitting on clothes, is holding
an old man's finger where the cars speed by,
is boxing shadows outside a cafe.
The song of life is mourning still a loss
too great to bear borne still each day.

Life has no score. The song of life
has yet to be composed, its author
not yet known, its horns contending
in concrete echoes of a city's sprawl,
its winds sweeping in on freeway veins
from distant furrowed fields, its strings
hanging from the sky onto high rise crowns,
all assembling still. A curtain will
roll back, a stick will rap, the instruments
will breathe the great breath before the song is played.