Rickeya struck the piano, opening the chords in two.  

pound, pound, pound

her  hands rythmetically licked the chords

naturally in time with the conductor who 

bounced, bounced, bounced 

his head fast to the right and left

His whole shoulder moving that time

orange hair in a big red bow, tied back

But each head bob loosened a strand, a string, a membrane

loose, that seeped in the girl's head

She took it, moved it, in her music
 

her head betrayed none of the self consciousness like when she sloped through

the streets, thunder belts crackling,

she picked up her feet on those days, 

but at the piano they were heavily anchored to the pedals, 

each lift, head down, each rise, head up,

a cadence

perplexing with the conductor's,

his rippled membranes streaming underneath his toes now

He danced while composing, moving forward and back,

almost throwing his stick at his young musicians

play, play, play, would you?