Most musician’s companions follow them
but organists arrive to theirs, their hands
but another pair of hands in a line
of hands that rested on the manual.
Like so did I approach this institute,
hoping that my hands, or something inside
me might be useful to this grand machine.
But instead I found a whale, nothing that
would yield to skillful manipulation,
no keys or pedals but rather baleen
something that for its own purposes lived.
April 21, 2025. Written for National Poetry Writing Month
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