violin lessons at Preucil School

The dim entryway smells of snowmelt on old rubber mats,

rosin, and the wet wool coats of smokers. Tunes and scales

mute their way through lathe and plaster, tumble down

hardwood steps, and bid a jumbled welcome.

Above, feet clomp across the oaken expanse of a recital hall where a

silent stage waits: the patient, gaping-mouthed monster who relishes

in swallowing kids who haven’t put in their half-hour-a-day,

and the stage steps I once fell down after fainting.

Outside my teacher’s studio the rows of chairs on deep green shag

and the spot where Robin Andreason turned to me as she drew

a satin blanket over her violin, and asked: “Will you go with me?”

And I replied: “Go where?”

In the studio my teacher sits wide and large on the rolling chair -

always the short sleeves of the monochrome polyester shirt,

the unlikely, nimble fingers at the end of substantial arms,

and the tell-tale neck bruise of the well-practiced player.

The dim entryway smells of snowmelt on old rubber mats,

rosin, and the wet wool coats of smokers. Tunes and scales

mute their way through lathe and plaster, tumble down

hardwood steps, and bid a jumbled welcome.