At first it is Beethoven’s Ninth
I’m thinking of, not
all of it, mostly the fourth movement,
that rousing crescendo
you might hear at the end
of a movie where the protagonist
has graduated or overcome
some great hurdle, cello, violin,
then flute, brass, layering
one another, swelling
towards that feeling of triumph
I so rarely seem to have,
but often think about, now
maybe because of the shrieks
and cheers from a party
in the courtyard, drifting into
the window of my room,
where I’m often
alone, laughter
rising like fireworks,
then I’m thinking
of the feeling itself, joy,
how it almost seems made
of air, like you can be full
of it, or sometimes
it’s a child’s red bouncing ball
that somehow gets away
from you, and you have
to chase it into a busy intersection,
and everyone’s laying
on their horns, all that air
vibrating and swollen,
your chest swollen, too,
and maybe chasing it
could get you killed
or crippled at best,
but what feels better
than that moment,
when you catch it,