A Well-tempered Calculator

A taste of music sits pink on her tongue.
She faces each morning like math—a sum—
an X for solving. She feels numbers like Bach
could smell notes. Her window opens a crack
to hear rain canons and in case the sun

broke through chorded clouds. A quadratic run
unspools in her mind. Her mouth makes small sounds
of pleasure. Measured bars will call her back
to tastes of music.

Her metronome mind plays her quick, unsung
melodies no one will hear. Spring’s begun
so trees warm to blossom. She’ll improvise facts
leaving cold coffee untouched. Not for lack
of thirst. She’s ready for another fun—
that taste of music.