By John Sangster
Mother’s violin waits in the attic,
wondering if it remembers how to sing.
Father’s songs (It meant he was happy)
hang in the air.
Grandmother’s Victrola beckons.
Thick 78’s: Caruso, Bix, and Bing.
Crank me, it said.
That cowboy who played the saw
at the Palomar Theatre,
the family spinet and boogie-woogie
on the black keys.
In my study corner, steel strings,
curving lines of spruce and rosewood.
All the years,
how we lullabied the babies,
danced the dancers,
found ourselves at daybreak
Copyright 2008 John Sangster