Take the Violin

Every thing and thought and creature's wiser than I am.
Take the violin, for instance. Surely knows much
more than I do. No violence is wrought, as far as
I can tell, wherever what gives beauty to it dwells –
somewhere within its strings and wood. But when
I perform on it I’m full of stings and unexamined must

and should and couldn’t-if-I-tried. The violin to me
is like an adolescent bride that I would rather be
deep-fried than have to wed. I seem to want to saw
through it until the gift is dead. Idiot: here's Mozart, Bach!
I ought to praise the skies and my unfathomable luck
that I can prise and pick it up and make it, in a manner,

sing. I wonder if I’ll ever help the thing and me take
wing. Or so I dither on the phone to my friend Donna
who is evidently holding her enormous cat Cee-Gee
upon her chest quite near the little holes through
which one sends one’s sounds. Cee-Gee’s purring
like a lioness. The wiser creature's happiness abounds.



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