Accordion shrieks across their articulated beach.
Today he plays to bid poor Edna away.
Read lightly, his sigh bleats sky with wave’s bluster.
Washed tones met with scents of pinkish you.
Muffled forfeitures of past business stays
call out — Edna! Won’t you think of your
disciples rife? Your duties? Your life brayed,
with squeezebox, on stage, to play?
Clouds of swirly coughed mist melt torrents,
shiver his muffler, striped with flower currents
whipped ’round without luster, grayed to dye.
Today Accordion speaks out-with merit morning
paper thought crinkling, set loose to sea on dry dock,
to wander about his missing Edna who
flits between the waves, skips under bottomless
scorns of ocean floor, de-pressing her sleeves.
Free Edna, alone and wondering for freedom
from Accordion — who with gentle squeeze wished no work
but to play, thought nothing of that Concertina,
who lived to learn and explore, forlorn.
She looks back at mental instrumate, torn
forward, fallen Accordion, sagging grim-shocked
hollow, belting dirges reeded, mourning Edna to swim on.
A special thanks to Kate Chopin and Lucy’s clouds of swirly coffee mist for this piece.