The Accordionist

Because accordions just get to me. (And, incidentally, this is the THIRD time I've had to post this thing.)

 

He slips the straps on, and feels the weight he carries.

The pads of his knobby fingers graze the keys,

Gliding like a swallow above glassy extremes;

Shyly, tenderly, he exerts a button,

Squeezing the bellows, narrowing eyes at the sun.

 

People get drunk from the sound, wanting a waltz

Wanting cause to divvy the feelings that are false

With those of musical, methodical experts

To feel the weight he carries, slipping on the straps.

 

Bowed fingers dance the chords, wind passes through reeds

Without reviving encore, he takes exactly what he needs,

A soulless abandon as they fill up his cup

He takes a slight bow, his thumb still in the stirrup.

The shallow applause is something he's foreseen.

He shrugs off his straps, and they feel the weight he carries.