do they feel what they filter?
beckoning fingers
tense frightened faces
plead to the twelve string:
sing
do they see what they capture?
with intrusive eye
divided focus
yet it must be hooked:
look
do they hear the brush of the waves?
guitar will not move
but woman leans in
still air will glisten:
listen
no one feels the boredom
no one sees the bad takes
no one hears clanked dishes
sadly
no one savors smell of bread
frustrated with extensive boom
they patiently wait to produce
the world of excitement and thrill
bearing down on the musician
hoping to share the gift of song
but both their eyes are made of glass
ears hold court for naught but static
and all their hands can grasp
of dimensions
there are:
two
