We take up the back half of the stage,
two bands divided by a grand piano—

jazz stage left, wind ensemble stage right—
some of us in both, me dazzled, literally,

by bright lights. I haven’t played onstage
in a half century, but I remember these

pseudo stars gleaming overhead,
red streaks raining down in sheets and,

as the dancers rehearse, all kinds of color
tattooing their lithe bodies. I am agog at

the stagecraft—the capable stage manager
and riggers warning us to watch out

as they lower trusses and adjust tall black
curtains, while up high over the stage

in the fly loft mysterious equipment
waits in the shadows for its cue.

And when someone calls “Blackout!”
I extinguish the slender light clamped to

the music stand before me, then lower
myself to sit in this theatrical womb,

watching for the signal to rise, pick up two
mallets, locate the director’s white baton

poised in the half-light, wait for her
downbeat, and begin.