Plucked as she rests
On a lap that has waited.
Patience can sour
If wasted on useless palms
Resting idle
The strum of a soliloquy
Will not conduct itself
Finger glide gently
Over and on top of-
The intimidation of tuning.
Ink to swill the sound shared
A beckoning, long overdue
Fuck torpid stasis
And utilize redundancy
If that is what it takes
These lessons need banging
Hard and on drums, hidden
A dare to cognition
A fluctuation into movement
To steer the hand into song.
The ticket written, sent
And now read and acted upon
A tearing of throats and
peppered goats;
“Haha, She can sing”
And she will, she WILL
And the mornings will pass
As the canyon closes
New skills to meet old faces
As Pink Floyd plays on.
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