Music to My Ears

I’m not a Stradivarius
my pitch is too precarious,
my understanding of crochets and quavers
wavers.
I’m not mellow like a cello
or bright like Steinway high notes — more yellow.
I don’t project, I bellow
like a crumhorn; not high-octave sound
but kind of contralto bassoonahish, round
of body — an ill-tempered clavier missing a note.
I should let the frog in my throat
do the singing,
the talking,
find the harmonica
for the gin and the tonica.
My didgeridoo doesn’t.
My kazoo wasn’t.
My accordion lacks accord. Heated discussion
drowns out my arrhythmic percussion.
Silence is the best music I have ever heard;
that or the song of a single springtime bird.