Ode to a Musical Saw

No longer walking the straight & narrow, no longer restricted to the harsh amens of service, now it’s your turn to be held still

for the sawing of some effete bow, generations removed from any kinship with arrows. But you’re free! And this song of yours

might otherwise never have been heard. You put your whole body into it, still ascetic, but now for the cause of art.

There’s a sweet spot, the street musicians say, & they find it in you. Where the heart might be, systole & diastole in perfect balance, if you were more than cartilage.

The pure tone floats up through two octaves of rejoicing at your deliverance from lumber. Or is this grief?