I Belong to the Violas

I belong to the no-longer-adolescent nympho

who sees herself

somewhere between an aspiring starlet

and the stripper’s chardonnay

I belong to the Maniac’s cackle,

to the broken dishes, the flurry

of emails and late-night messages

to his exuberant hissing “yes!”

that zips across freeway lines

until he runs out of gas

and ends up on his ass

I belong to the unknown comedian

Who spent a summer in New Orleans

in the upper 9th

just to try something new

I belong to the two young musicians

whose companionship does not break

my heart, only reminds me

that it is incomplete

The blonde poster girl can fade into the abyss

and the priest can rot in hell

The choirboy can lose his voice

and the TV host can drown

I am not for the unhardened,

the properly tuned-

eyes blind to half of life’s beauty,

or the deaf of indifference

I am not for them- no. 

I belong to the violas.