Breath

By Floyd Skloot

For depth of breath young Sinatra
like a boxer ran five morning miles.
Solo on the high school track, thin
as the stripe on a lane, he was all
ears, all bone. He was all business.

The first laps were always for love
songs, nice and easy till he found
his rhythm, drawing the urban air
in deep. The moment he became
one with wind, he knew the way
a body held in check could move
exactly like a melody. It was simple
as swimming underwater. His stride
grew smooth, fingers to shoulders
to hips to toes, graceful as a smile
across low notes as the key shifted.

That was for the long lines of lyric
no one else could hold. In time he ran
for the uptempo tunes, let go a little
to get the torso involved and bring
his thin arms into play, his gait all glissando.
Step by step he swelled from the inside
out, making himself strong enough
for song. He ran past pain, timed by
the beat of his heart because song
was not about how fast but how long.
This was his Golden Age, Jersey City
in the early Thirties, his moment to make
dreams come true. Music was in the air.
He knew he could go on like that forever
because his dream began with breath.