fiddler

(this is an imitation of Marianne Moore, who used specific syllabic schemes in all her poems.)

I lean up
against the
furthest wall.
My friends are already onstage, with
the rest of the choir,

the two gui-
tars, and the
sole fiddler.
She stands poised, breathes in, raises her bow
and delivers her

dulcet and
discordant
duet. It's
confusing to the ear but it's plain
and simple to the

part of me
that controls
the rising
feeling I get when exposed to loss,
exiles, wanderers,

the ones with-
out homes. The
fiddler frowns
at her music. I fold my arms and
watch the fireplace.