Swans are nice; however I prefer ugly ducklings

You see her weep
hanging onto that black swinging note
the crest toppling beneath the lines
her hunched shoulders
those raspy noises
She cries for her own selfish reasons
Torn up beatniks ramble on
And they all say they love her
but she’s like
a ghost that wants
to go home
Registers and a
Corelli trade off
tired of feeling a pin prick
like a useless sense of pain
Sweeping fermata, nightlong
All the world waited for her as
she played that
last minor scale
they pause to reflect on
her effervescent beauty, her
shaking fists
fingers hobbling on a cold clarinet
a crying soul with
no place- barely even an
ear to borrow