The Song Is You

Musical instruments sleep in the dark

for several hours a day:

the folks we belong to aren't always at play,

so we can't always be at work. 

Our silence holds music: an undiscovered bourne,

horizons which have never been viewed,

like undeclared love growing deeper in solitude,

or the crystalline heart of a stone. 

My sleep, however, was more like a death:

in the dark of an attic for years;

forgetting my existence, and my glorious career

with the best female swing band on the earth. 

I was the great love of my Sweetheart's life. 

A man came between us. And soon

I was in the dark collecting dust and out of tune;

they were pronounced man and wife. 

Instead of the charts, my gal read Dr. Spock. 

We played once a week, once a year . . .

At first, from my closet, I was able to hear

her family's coninuo of talk. 

My Sweetheart's grandson brought me to the shop. 

Something has ruined my voice. 

Older, not riper, I'm a sorry old bass. 

But that doesn't mean I've lost hope

 . . .that someone will hold me in a tender embrace, 

her arms will encircle my neck;

someone will press her warm length to my back, 

and pluck notes from my gut with her fingers' caress.