Little violin,
despite your sturdy, resolute hull
and those
two ghostly ear holes,
you're not quite
a skull
built to house the restless brain
of some long-dead master,
or an envelope full
of brutally honest letters
to the editor of a sleepy magazine
called Sunrises and Sunsets.
No—to me, you're the tiny
wooden room
where one determined writer
can just barely fit,
provided he sits hunched
uncomfortably enough,
to listen to
your distant singing
and hopefully scribble
a few poems—fantastically
alone, and most likely by
virtue of you.
