He felt his days flow as music
Today fast but not too quick
Tomorrow adagio
When the rhythms of work set a tempo he liked
He kept the beat rolling past plans and accounts
Hunting for harmonies he’d never heard
At night before he reached his bed
He sharpened the pitch
Flattened on waking every dark morning
Craving the colors of summer
Forgotten tones of the woman he loved
Once he died they played a dirge he despised
I was his son and only I knew
The boss never could hold a tune
