Cries of Distress from the Boom Carpet

It would be a crime
to translate the muffled
trombone of adult voices
in Charlie Brown’s world.

It would be a crime
to dissect any parallels between
Simon and Garfunkel’s folk song “Patterns”
and Uncle Tupelo’s instrumental “Sandusky.”

To make fun of your 14-year-old self
for singing her heart out
to Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide”
slightly off key.

A crime to villainize
your girlfriend who laughs so hard
at your performance
tears stream down her cheeks. Yours.

Neither of you could know
the beauty in that moment.

A crime to believe
all this organology
will bring back
the lituus or gue.

It would be a crime to continue
cursing the banjo or accordion,
bagpipes or penny whistle,
ukulele or hurdy-gurdy.

To forget
how it felt to play
that harpsichord
when you were 10.

A broken
sound barrier
will heal itself faster
without your help.

The biggest crime
you can commit—

the moment you pin a word on it,
everything falls apart.

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