Five Thoughts of the Violinist

I.
Proudly I jut across the lights,
the violin and its eighty-four parts
pouched between chin and shoulder-blade.
We fit exactly: my right arm,
double-jointed, is tipped with pearl.
Down tracks of gut and steel I sight
my left hand scrolled to match the wood.

But here he comes-my alter ego,
the fearsome cripple who each night
repacks his weathered limbs in velvet
and falters down the city tunnels:
a busker bundled off his pitch
with nothing but a wavering echo
to see him to the end of darkness.

2.
Before a note is played
solo I orchestrate
...