They all said she was playing me
like a two-dollar fiddle.
But I never figured out
if that was supposed to be a compliment
I’ll tell you, she was more
of a virtuoso than people gave her credit
for, and I had more experience being played
than any pawn-shop stringed instrument
could reasonably withstand.

The way she rosined up her bow,
slipped it between her fingers,
slid it across the strings,
there is no way in hell she hadn’t
spent half her life practicing
for the day someone like me would come
along to lie across her shoulder
like a shawl and submit.

We made beautiful music, sure,
until she started dabbling in woodwinds.
I heard after we’d split, she went full-on
percussion, banging on everything
with skins, eventually settling down,
surrendering melody for motherhood
to two obstreperous kids.

I guess I came out on top after all.
I wonder, though, if she ever hears
those familiar strains when she gazes
out across the yard. Although
it took awhile, I’ve finally replaced
them with something catchier.