Music of the Old and Wrecked
Dancing to my miniature orchestra of pain
The chorus in my head sings
each morning, dozens of squeaky
voices, a low cascade of misery
in my ears as I open my eyes
to the early light.
More voices joining every year,
now the din a symphony of woe,
a miniature orchestra of pain conducted
by a body born before televisions,
driven hard, wrecked, now just a few miles
short of the scrap yard, all of me held
together by duct tape, stretchy jeans
and tee shirts older than my kids.
Their first music of the day, wake up,
wake up, we got to pee. I swing my legs
over the side of the bed, the drum section
in my brain starts pounding… thump, thump,
you shouldn’t have had that third glass
of wine, then scratchy off key violin notes
from the ankles, like two cats fighting
in a cardboard box, now the low sax
wail from my lower back, it’s the blues
baby, the soft songs of pain and suffering.
