Always to the Violin

I always tip a Violinist.
I see them
swaying at the entrance of a transit line,
eyes closed in wonder -
wandering through other worlds.

And I know they
spent hours with that shapely wood,
petting it till it purred,
soothing it to hum with the bow.

I know

their father spent
hundreds
on lessons,
and mom sacrificed
her last 30 minutes
to wait patiently outside the little room
where a million cats lay agonizing to the point of
death
and teacher
scratched his head
wondering
how to better explain:
"loosen your wrist.
No.
Like this."

I know

the Violinist plays his treasure
in long chords of gold and
choppy drops of southern wind
in fretless notes and loosened wrist,
each giving their lover their highest favor as
gently, he strokes her neck and
softly she sings in his ear his favorite song
he practiced long to hear.

And so for
father
teacher
mother
lover,
the hours soaring past the bridge
that are joyfully recovered,
and for the high-note E string
where all their effort pours in,

I'll always tip
the Violin.