One Big Accordion

I squeeze and then 

relax my arms,

allow the music

to be poured

as I pore over each

taut muscling and

each letting go.

The only one I know

who wants to play accordion

has touched the brush

that touched the canvas

that touched lives back.

I have resisted heavy instruments

that demand the body strength 

and thus the flute, the picc-, 

the alto recorder, 

cousin of plastic flutophone.

The accordion has gravity.

The flute has little gravity,

just gravitas. Especially Mr. Opperman's 

big lungs, his muscularity, 

the heft of his intention

and attention.

Then my own young even 

prodigious blend of discipline

and its lack. There is no slack allowable

with the accordion. No lack

of jest in gesture to ingest

the palpable occasions.

Birth and wedding, death

we do not always 

celebrate the harmony of form,

the blast of juice,

the inferential boost that presses

hard and fast. To last.