Akinboyewa Ayoola

The music whined at its end.
The orchestra had the last line
Within the guitar string,
A pluck and it whined again and
The crowd screamed for more.
The orchestra dropped the silence
Of a concluded concerto
And the hall caught it
In awed whispers muttering
From seat to seat, then
The guitar grinned and a solo
Slid into the limelight;
Riffs after riffs of immense gifts
Spilled between the soft tinkling melody
Of a triangle pausing and starting
Each frayed riff at the end of string.
Two reefers burned to keep the lights on
As bars after bars fell between
Each plucked note, each story, each key
Each music.


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