A gift

At the end of the concert, the famous rock harpist
wants to lift his harp over his head and smash it
but harps are heavy as empty beds. To bring roadies out
to smash his harp would be inauthentic rage. He settles
on burning his harp, the audience loves it and demands
an encore. He tells them he only has ashes to play
and they chant, PLAY THE ASHES. He plays the ashes
more imaginatively than he ever played the harp.
Finished, he tells the audience he has nothing to smash
or burn except the ashes. No one knows what to do now,
if the concert is over if nothing is smashed or burned,
whether to leave or make love and raise the children
born of these confused unions in the aisles. They make love
and raise the children to expect music to come and go
without the burning or smashing of what brought the music,
forgetting the famous rock harpist along the way. He's old
and crossing a park when he sees a young woman
looking up at a statue with wings, both the statue
and the woman have wings, you have wings, he says
to the young woman, so do you, she says to the old man,
the sun going down, the gyro guy packing up his cart
and pushing away the scent of lamb that has given the day
a significant portion of its structure and belief.
Bob Hicok


Bob Hicok

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