rough brass

nothing beautiful could possibly come from the dusty bell of that old saxophone

tarnished

touched by too many pairs of amateur hands

who had no right to touch it

dented by a careless man

who had no reed to use anyway

who dropped it

damaged the keys

i brought it to a man

who said that he could fix any instrument

he had fixed a few before

and he thought that he could fix

he thought he could hide

he thought he could erase

all of the damage and the dents

i trusted him with my prized instrument

only to be let down

for while the keys were fixed

and the brass had been polished in a failed effort to hide

every dent

every scratch

he could not erase everything that had happened over the decades

every time i pick up the instrument

i feel the years

i feel the damage

i feel the icy and dry palms of all who have touched my beloved saxophone

the dirty and unworthy palms of all who have touched it despite their lack of interest in what it was meant to do

now the old saxophone lies in my hands

my warm and caring

only slightly calloused hands

and i take good care of it so that beautiful things might someday flow from her gleaming bell

if only somebody would have done for me

what i did for that saxophone