i envy she at the music boutique
who waked before dawn rushes
in to tighten each string
on the used ukuleles
various violins, myriad mandolins
guitars galore & harps handled
fondled & browsed dissonant slack
in yesterday's business
who blows the dust out of each horn
the entire woodwind section &
that insular clot of didgeridoos in the corner,
picks up claves, mallets, sticks,
brushes xylo- & vibraphones' teeth,
who slaps the drumheads awake
who wipes the ersatz ivories clean
of mucousy sugary
children-handed glaze
(& the plastic 'round the buttons
& the displays) resets the levels
& maybe, then, plays a bit
before opening the store
i bet she sings