Our Music

Think nothing of it. Hand your words,
not even enough to be a poem,
to that piano man. Who is he to you
behind those mirrored glasses,
a pilling fedora, gold thread fraying
in the weave of his slick shirt.
During the day he pushes a pencil;
you can see the shadow of the shirt he wears
under the real shirt. Before the meeting
he will slide a silver disk in a plain sleeve
across the table, saying only I finished it.
Lines you wrote now sturdy, percussive,
transformed by witchcraft, alive.
He will always want more words,
will put what you write in front of him,
wait for the feelings to become melody.
They don’t talk about what it does to you,
writing songs. Sing something
enough and it will happen.