Jeff Hoffman
Man of La Mancha
donkey-ish memories again—bray more when tugged—Mom left
instructions—my brother to sing Danny Boy—me The Impossible
Dream—graveside at her burial—Sancho
spits out his drink—and graveside these years later stays buried—out
pokes instead the marbled
walnut maybe—cherry maybe—of my grandmother’s player piano that
played itself no longer—missing gears maybe—springs maybe—and
just that much—mark it, Sancho—I learned to write—teenage misfit
anthems—aka my joyous nasally
ravishments of gloom—because the player was not what once it must
have been—Nana’s brittle-edged
song scrolls—yellowed flecks on my hands—“Do
Something”—“Somebody’s Wrong”—“I’m Building a Sailboat of
Dreams”—the player traveled
I don’t know how—from my grandmother’s farmhouse—Wisconsin to
Pennsylvania—till there it was waiting—magic tarp-shrouded monster
on our back patio—monster needing
six men to move it into our family room—however many pounds the
wood plus the heavy of its lungs—aka its pumper bellows—Sancho
now informs me—how strange still every treasure every new name
discovered—stirred by the mystery—united in our mission—Sancho
and I hunt down a diagram online—88 steel pin rods hidden inside the
monster’s casing—hovering above the unstained ebony—un-ivoried
spruce wood
necks of the keys—the pin rods ready to strike—never striking—never
even knew—all these years—the player’s
ghost mechanics existed—and there I sit—rehearsing—pecking out
notes—my brother beside me—from glen to glen—holding steady the
tune—and down the mountainside—while plunked I onward—in
sunshine—so here I now demand—in shadow—my mother listening—
hushed and white with snow
Other work by Jeff Hoffman