I’m Listening to Something

I’m listening to something.
I don’t know what it’s called 
but it’s Chopin.
It’s something Alexa pulled
from the high capacity byte magazine
of her small black canister
which sits under a lamp upon a table
against the wall (where most of us have spent
at least a little time, sweating)
its power umbilical plugged to an outlet,
its invisible wireless thread
stretched taut to a router
its bluesy halo perfectly apropos—
but whatever it is, it is necessarily of the moment
and I had asked, after all , for classical,
so maybe
Alexa knows more than I
of what this now must consist

Of what it partially consists are bell sounds
—not bells really 
but the closest thing
Chopin could 
come up with
to be played on an thing

that sounds bell-like but which again
I admit: I haven’t a clue.
Despite having a poet’s surfeit of words
you’d think 
I’d surveyed my ground
committing to a page, but it’s
spontaneous magic as I sit here
among Chopin’s luscious frequencies listening,
applying Chopin to the day’s doing,
wondering why Alexa has now, unexpectedly,
shuffled Ahmad Jamal into the mix,
wondering what Ahmad’s poignant,
corazon-filled jazz has
to do with what
this now