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Messenger

“Play the music, not the instrument.”
    ~ author unknown

When I first sat in a band room
She sat directly across;
Dressed in her cheerleading costume,
She blew flute notes with a toss
Now and then of her curled tresses,
As if to say she was born
To play first flute with finesse as
I meanwhile played first French horn.
She may have seen how I noticed
Her pretty legs all those days
Though I had not the remotest
Hope to do more than just gaze.
Three years passed by, then came high school.
She’d dropped the cheerleading act.
She no more played flute so artful:
She played third French horn, in fact.
I didn’t sit right beside her
Since I still held the first chair.
What could have caused her to transfer?
Nothing that she chose to share.
Next year came chemistry classes:
Differing ones, hers and mine,
Yet we met and studied gases
In the bookstacks, my old shrine
At the old public library.
Was she too studying me?
If she was, then I was nary
Conscious if in me she’d see
Someone she’d like to know better
Though, could I go back, I’d be
Asking to do more together
Than music and chemistry;
Already she’d made clear whether
She minded being near me.
I had to leave the horn section:
My teeth, knocked loose by some goon,
Made brasses out of the question;
I took up playing bassoon.
Who knows just how that change she took?
Nothing did she have to say,
But her girlfriend, in my yearbook,
Railed about how I was gay.

Thanks always returns

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