Father

They called you an instrument of play. I listened

in rapture to your breath bellowed lute. In constant

listening, in tuned and retuned improvisations, for my

play, later. Melodious or discordant, it was only you

who in nebulous horizons played unending, unabated

Music tires with age too. The play hall stales

with forever entertainment seekers. Play brittles

and notes, repetitive. Till someday, in anticipated

dread, the aged reeds collapse. Silence on sound throes

As I picked the logs of your deadened remains

I sealed my listening in a tight over-wrapped

bundle, fastened by repeated knots. Taut rubber

band tightened. My play balloon ever in an air bloom

Forever childlike I shall follow you, your play's

emulation. Hustling time will jostle. The vortex

of remembered listening will draw to you, yours, me.