flute case

i play instruments poorly.
as a kid, i did not practice. 
the oboe whose sound came out like a 
a lost loon & the drums in the attic 
whose rhythm did not keep me. 
then the guitar who would walk into my bedroom 
on all fours. i had pictures of my father
playing his electric on little bar stages, his hair
wet with sweat. my fingers are strolling things.
could never press down hard enough.
the callouses that came & went like
door side slippers. instead of music 
i have learned to collect sound.
when my brother wasn't home i would
play his violin. scattered notes. wire birds.
the trumpet without a bell. the piano
with teeth like a whale. there are symphonies 
i can give one note to. i see them lighting up
across the town at night. a note sung
into a bathroom fan. i do not know still
the difference between noise & music.
my mother played the flute before i was born
but never after. i found her flute case 
in the attic. assembled that little creature.
pressed my lips to its face & let it hold seance.
a sound is a voice which we share only in the moment. 
i played with the keys & put the flute back 
where i found it. traced the smilie face sticker
on the outside. stuck there by my mother 
when she was young. i hear the song 
the corn sings when it is almost ready to be taken. 
as my hair grows back i think of horsehair & 
the long bow of my brother's bass.
i am okay with being a sound collector 
& not a musician which might be another way
of saying that i am a poet.