Coda

The universe is a phonograph,
Our lives mere vinyl recordings
Playing daily mundane tunes,
Monotony annual practice.
Bugles whine in the background,
Drums lethargic from humdrum;
Violins strumming mediocrity,
Tap the exhausted sonata.
Measures scoring hebetude,
Mind drifts slowly to sleep.

Man picks up the trombone,
His stand assembled before him;
Unleashing the brass slide,
Music illuminates everything.
Blowing into the mouthpiece,
The bell resounds with euphony;
Glissandos follow crescendos,
The melody in solo derived.

Accompaniments form around him,
Saxophones playing the harmony,
Tubas maintaining the rhythm,
Trumpets discover pizzazz.
Percussionists guide the band,
Mitigating every facet within;
Jazz the newfound excitement,
People dance in felicitous joy.
Music is humanity’s metronome,
Spontaneity the Coda creates.

Justin Reamer is a writer from Michigan. He has published several poems
with several feuilletons and is working on a novel. He currently attends
Eastern Michigan University for his M.A. in Creative Writing.