Richard is done tuning; he turns to his violinist,
calls her his conscience, names her Sarah.
She can’t find an unattractive way to hold her violin.
Maybe better half’s a bit closer.
Behind, the guitarist starts, lights
his corner with a mess of motion
and stage-cyan peeking through wispy hair
and he croons silently to his guitar
and the words are all “help” and his limbs seize and kick
and I can hear that he’s driving the song.
