That’s what cars are for,
said the master whistler, when I told him
I could not whistle.
I auditioned for him
with my one-note draft,
and he said, Yeah, I
can work with that,
which I took to mean
that I could work with that.
Eventually, he said,
you’ll arrive at a tone.
And so I whistled
four hours as I drove north,
starting with Moon River,
Skylark, and Paris in Springtime,
then, demoralized
by lack of progress,
turned on the eighties station
and created a breeze
to accompany INXS, Howard Jones,
Prince and Tone Loc.
The difference between
what I heard in my head
and what came from my lips—
so much beauty
missing. And just
before arriving at my own
front door, I had somehow
begun a gusty rendition
of When the Saints Go Marching In,
and thought to myself,
yeah, I think I might
be getting it, but five
verses later laughed
at my longing for success.
When I opened the door
of the car, I felt the wind
meet my face. I let it
carry the almost notes
and decided tomorrow
I’d try some Moondance
and Fever before Hot Cross Buns,
knowing how it takes
a lot of wind
before one’s ship comes in.