Practice Wing

In channels of white walls

Lined for miles with brown doors

I saw a boy

Painting his song on black and white keys

He didn’t sense the sensation I felt

That brought me to this poem

His teacher stood behind him

Their skin creating a waxing crescent

Turned 90 degrees

I wonder how far he’ll go

If his dreams will unfold

To the sound

In porous practice rooms

Where proofing only masks sunlight.

I wonder if he’ll find joy

In worshipping white forefathers

Tolerating white foremothers

And giving his ancestors specialty concerts