Faded fluorescent sparkles
painted on during your bar days,
when smoky musicians tickled
to the delight of drunken glee.
We rescued you back then
when they were about to raze
my father’s tavern.
Warned of your demise,
we hippies raced up the highway,
just in time.
We brought you back
to that old-timey church
to entertain the Lord.
Later, loaned you to that bar
where a famous jazz artist
demanded a grand, but they screwed up.
Rolled you down the street
on your wheels, returned you to the church,
like an out-of-tune hymn.
Short on cash in our young marriage,
we sold you to a farmer.
Where are you now?
We’re so sorry.
Are you tuned, still being played?
Do others’ grandchildren bang away?
Or, do you, beautiful baby grand,
sit in a barn somewhere,
biding time?
Originally Published in Down In The Dirt Magazine