To her, it was playing a violin,
Sweet sinews like stretched strings
And the bow ready in her grasp.
The cascading melodies she made
To him, it was a ceaseless rhythm.
Each drip was a tap on the snare drums
And the trails left behind were a cruise
Down a ride cymbal—
Even if the instrument was really
Just the bathroom’s porcelain sink.
To everyone else,
Their song was a red elegy
Recorded on the staff
Note by hand-carved note.
But to them
It was simply making music.