My daughter has begun to play trombone.
Viola wasn't really to her taste.
And still, if I say "practice," then she'll moan
And groan, and find a thousand ways to waste
The time, before she'll open up the case,
And put her book of music on the chair,
Then raise the brass and silver to her face,
Becoming just trombone, and cheeks, and hair.
I sit beside her, helping with her scales,
Or half of one, from B-flat up to F.
(Last year I sat and bit my fingernails -
I never learned to read viola clef.)
Tonight, a scrape - a sound I can't abide.
She happily took out her plastic vial,
Doled out two drops of magic to the slide,
And sent me back in time a little while:
You may not understand, unless you've spent
Some time in love with heralds, of a kind.
The metal, and the slide oil, and its scent,
Leave tracings of a happiness behind.
She may or may not take to this cologne.
To me, it smells of being nearly grown.


Salon.com
Comments
rated with love
PS: What's the definition of an optimist? A trombone player with a beeper.
What's the definition of an old musician? A guy with a bunch of musician jokes where the punch line depends on outdated technology.
love this line! and the tone of the poem draws me in
wonderful that a parent takes the time, oh so wonderful!
Rated for when to guide and when to support.
Leave tracings of a happiness behind."
I love this the most. Not to pick your poem apart my other favorite line to which I'm beaten is:
"Becoming just trombone, and cheeks, and hair."
Rated.
As always, DB, so wonderful is your poetry.
My ex-wife has begun her performance season, which means the kids will have extended stays with me, which means I go to an exhausted place, almost daily.
Please accept my heartfelt thanks for coming by and reading, and my apology for not being able to give you better than this thank-you. Thank you.
Goodnight!
Then raise the brass and silver to her face,
Becoming just trombone, and cheeks, and hair.
Enjoy.