We have three bottles on the kitchen table.
One is filled with the music of hundreds of old horn pipes
in the key of D, which no one plays anymore. we drink
and game. Soon they won’t be hornpipes anymore
but tricky little roles from long-dead masters
remembered by no one but us. We play them
and they are like nothing anyone has ever heard
before. Oh the ins and outs and ups and downs
of them, like an old song, the jolly plowman
sings to the beautiful maiden below her at midnight
window and lured her out for a forbidden affair
this will change her life forever. But pretty soon
All that remains is an old waltz that we carry with us
the living room floor a foot until it falls apart
before we even find out the second half of it.
We can’t even get close to the other two bottles.