Also Mutants

Junkyard Symphony

8-16-17

I've got bones that pop like I ain't worthy
of the fat they support or the muscles
that are fading with each pill I take
for this thing or that thing or
this thing caused by that thing.
My body is a junkyard symphony;
a cultural institution about to have
its funding slashed again, faster
than you can say " washboard solo
arpeggio", let alone play one.
Ligaments twang like violin strings plucked too often.
Knuckles the reminder of snapped drumstick ends, fraying.
Hips out of tune with my spine's weary metronome, and
the conductor shows up when he wants...
when he can get out of bed.
Yet everyone wants a song!
Some, because they think you can and have no idea.
Some, because they know you can't and want to see your pain.
Some, because they know you can't yet will convince you you can,
         so they can say your effort is good enough to keep you
         alive and nothing more.
Yes, everyone wants a song!
But no one wants to know what goes into
the crafting and the performance.
They don't want the soul;
they only want the show.