Lorraine, you know Lorraine,
she dives onto the woodsmooth platter of a floor,
she makes it hers, she is the one
whom the announcers shore up
into monologic plaintext
sometimes when the simmer of the shortlist dims
and skeins of nothing happen
until there must be something to be said
again about Lorraine. you know Lorraine.
she's shadowy, endowed, imported,
and a minced invasion all her own
of everything she has and is and will be
in our eyes. our eyes are fastened on Lorraine.
and any day now even rain will not be dulled beneath
the glimmer of Lorraine.
she makes the sport worth watching hatching mid-syllabic.
if I were to have invented music
I would have done it with the blessing of
Lorraine's mezzo sop. I would have turned tunetables
up to snuff. I would have watched her paint invisibly
yet visibly that hoped for floor.
I would have divaned out of mood I'm in right now
to watch and listen to her squeak percussion
do its magic on the skittery longwide floor.
the crowd would be a squealing spree for her.
and I would document the score the score
the warbling mint noise of the core
of what plays into this.
the shoreline of the sport.
the whole palatial spree of inner court.
sheila e. murphy
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