He had a clean, pink guitar
and scarecrow thighs, double-length
vibrating on a mauve rug without frills.
His playing never stopped, no vacations
(or work for the sake of completion and the census).
His synthesizer had 16 keys with one unworkable,
noted by wear and uncoloration; a pre-France beret
fell off in the heat of a dented up vent by the stairs.
Hats can tell you the redux, unredacted DNA
spilling out onto the floor, but stains weren’t possible
just the way animals think of it without houses.
