He plays the cello suite
©Wendy Mulhern
April 5, 2011
in a wrong tuning
The lowest string not dropped,
each bass note
a step too high – rude barging
into an otherwise soothing song
It is a musical joke.
He plays with his eyes closed
shifting inexorably
towards the horizontal
from which he leveraged himself,
with great groanings
demagnetized himself, most laboriously,
from the computer screen
after playing, lying down with his travel guitar,
a lament about having to rise.
He digresses to trim his fingernails
But I shall have music. Eventual music.
It is my hope. It would be a sweet fruit
of weary repetitious prodding.
I am here to encourage him
to curl into his space among the animals
on the bed. To occupy it
so it won’t pull him so quickly back.
How is it that this job belongs to me?
Or have I brought it down on my own head?
by too high expectations or by being too low key?
this daily nagging (begging) I have come to dread?
©Wendy Mulhern
April 5, 2011