My Art Will Go On

“You know”, I say, as I tuck my fingers between hers,

“My teacher put balls of crumpled brown paper

Between mine.” She grimaces, part ai-ai part

Ew, but her fingers figure out what to do.

She fans them out, positions the bow,

And launches into the famous Titanic ballad. Slow,

Painful, amid much cracking and clattering,

I hear the music emerge. That is how I know

It goes on. This feel of the wood singing

Under the fingertips, forgotten so long

The urgings of the kid bringing the old 

Joy surging back into the veins. The art

Strains the wrist, but the heart 

Has little respect for middle age’s aches 

And pains. And goes on. 


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