Late at night we meet again.
It's the life of a musician.
Face the fact, I'm making my move.
Evening hours bring hands that soothe.
Over, under, push, pull, don't fight.
Follow my lead and hold on tight.
Add a hand onto my thigh,
Sustained pain, enough to cry.
Twitch, sudden spasms, it's OK.
Release, contract, while Beethoven plays.
Inhale, exhale, and breathe with me.
Next I'll go deeper, this is key.
Grip my arm and hold on tight.
Moving slow, it hurts just right.
Unafraid now, to relieve the ache.
Sit still, collapse, you can't fake.
I've taken your pain and now it's mine.
Do me again! We'll say down the line.
It's you and me the course has been run.
Ah, sweet relief, innocent fun.
Relax, sleep well, and yes, we're done.
What's this poem about? It's actually an innocent poem about helping a guitarist friend who had tendonitis. It was a late night of playing in a band and both of us had sore arms. Him from his guitar, me from my viola.
ReplyDelete