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The Song Is You
Musical instruments sleep in the dark for several hours a day: the folks we belong to aren't always at play, so we can't always be at work. Our silence holds music: an undiscovered bourne, horizons which have never been viewed, like undeclared love growing deeper in solitude, or the crystalline heart of a stone. My sleep, however, was more like a death: in the dark of an attic for years; forgetting my existence, and my glorious career with the best female swing band on the earth. I was the great love of my Sweetheart's life. A man came between us. And soon I was in the dark collecting dust and out of tune; they were pronounced man and wife. Instead of the charts, my gal read Dr. Spock. We played once a week, once a year . . . At first, from my closet, I was able to hear her family's coninuo of talk. My Sweetheart's grandson brought me to the shop. Something has ruined my voice. Older, not riper, I'm a sorry old bass. But that doesn't mean I've lost hope . . .that someone will hold me in a tender embrace, her arms will encircle my neck; someone will press her warm length to my back, and pluck notes from my gut with her fingers' caress.