The Craftsman

Roommates are musicians,

Real ones,

Not like me, 

Who only makes sounds.

I always stop by the pantry

Even when I am not hungry nor thirsty,

Because I want to talk music. 

It is one thing to listen to,

Another thing to write,

And a whole ’nother thing 

To talk music. 

To talk something that is 

Untalkable.

But we always manage to keep the conversation going.

We hop into a driverless train, and as we keep talking,

Our carriage morphs into a cabinet. 

Music talks are wild.

Like this morning, the trombone player and I

Talked about how he changed the slide-end bumper,

Fixed our coffee machine,

With the hands just off of Respighi.