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.