Off Broadway

watching you at your first play,

you pointed at the orchestra pit, 

in awe.

a whimsical smile

played on your face,

like it will on a small child

who’s just discovered

one of those rainbow, spiral lollipops 

in real life,

not just as a cardboard prop in Candyland.

there is a certain honor in orchestrating a first for somebody;

a note that matches

the height of your brow,

as your eyes widened in wonderment.

your thank you shouldn't be voiced,

for it is a lowly redundancy

next to a face that dances

and those fingers that tap,

on my leg, my shoulder, matching tempo

with the stage,

and that wonderful pit.