You are plastic fine-tooth
and tissue three-ply,
non-recycled,
wetted with a child’s tongue.

The hooting rasp
of your unexpressed love.
The tooting gentleness
of your awkward hands.

Between the teeth
lie the grit and smear
and hair oil of months.
Tiny young hairs
turned to fluffy dust.

When a breeze blows,
your possibilities vibrate
into the sunny room,
the room that sees the garden.

The tunes you honk
are pre and post war,
are dean martin
al martino ballads.

the shadow of your smile
volare
red roses for a blue lady

If I blew you now,
my lips would shiver
like one about to sob.

Separate, your two components
are semi-practical
and temporary.

You fall apart,
and lose your instrument.

(photograph by Mark Mayes)