Viola

I hold my viola cradled in my arm

Before a concert

Everyone breathes too fast

The lights glare, the conductor begins.

I roll out of bed at one in the afternoon

My old viola from sixth grade

Lying on top of its case

Begging to be played.

I pick it up every day. I don't know what I play,

I just play.

I make music out of my boredom,

Music that will never be recorded,

Songs that will never be heard again.

Every day, I see the odd instrument

I pick it up and begin.

I have nothing better to do. But mostly,

I don't want it to see it lying there,

Alone.

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