There is nothing I love more than right disasters.
At a concert once, the microphones squawked
in the middle of the band’s best-known song.
The musicians’ hands froze just above the strings and keys,
the drummer’s feet rested lightly on the pedal-beds. Then
when the leader gave his nod they counted back in,
but to different measures, each abiding the metronomes
clocked in their heads and the song sour now,
and wild, like fruit from a new planet.
The shocked grins that bounced between them!
Weirder, they must have told themselves, and kept playing.