The Cello Player

I

There's a pedestrain tunnel under Front St.
and, sitting inside of it, you played your cello.
The tunnel is tiled like a bathroom floor
and there's a always a damp rivulet
running down the middle.
You sat against the wall in the dim
twinkling light and held the neck high
right by your own throat.
When you pulled your bow, the tunnel moaned.
The whole city had a throat and you
opened it that night. And outside
the rows of houses, painted white like teeth,
rattled and everyone asleep started dreaming.

II

I drew you in pencil that night. I took you home
like a photo in my head and traced it.
I drew your green coat hanging like curtains.
I drew your thick socks piled up around your boots.
I drew the cello too small and I fell asleep exhausted.
I didn't have it in me to draw your face,
just left it a white oval shining
from the waving halo of your hair.
I ripped it out and gave it to you.
Now I can feel it like a missing limb and the sound
of a cello makes the frayed paper edges tingle.