Releasing the Music
Scouring the flea market,
in the midst of the flotsam of a hundred lives,
you find a clarinet in an old faded case.
You do not know enough
to know if it is redeemable, playable,
an instrument still or a mere decoration,
but your eyes well, just a bit,
at the thought of someone releasing the music,
tossing it on the heap with the knick knacks and faded plastic flowers.
In your head, you can hear it,
Pete Fountain on Beal Street,
a sweet wailing in a smoky room,
the music somehow still alive, No matter the intention.
no matter the release or apparent death,
it echoes. It plays. It moves.
About this poem.
About the myriad of musical instruments I have seen in antique shops and fairgrounds over the years. About growing up in a household where my father played only blues and dixieland. About how every person in my life still echoes there, whether they are still with me, or not.