Wednesday, January 14, 2015

Oboe d'Amore

I do wonder what it would be like to be
The same me inside a beautiful body,
Having a veiled and pathetic tone. It got
Really dark, rich and somber. Then it got poor.
Then it explored. The right kind of poor, the right
Kind of rich have this in common. We haven't
Worked a day in our lives. We have such soft hands,
As my hard-handed father in his wheelchair
Enjoyed pointing out, with the perversity
Of anyone disabled who's found a way
In this perverse universe. I play oboe.

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