Last March

Last March

The violins have stopped rehearsing
Their notes no longer sing
The keys have grown this silent rage
They tell me this is Spring

I just can’t trust my hearing
The bells have all gone shrill
I taste another from my stash of waste
My bottle, not my pill

I hear the voices singing out
For whom they sing I wonder
The sounds too clearly clipped and sure
Sopranos never blunder?

Why do I sit and watch this act
This vile parade, this ruse
It seems I’m stewed and frozen here
So sad and out of tune