On the train

Crazy orchestra man

with your undone curls,

cause of your frantic fingering

normally practiced upon four fine strings,

currently tucked away,

your rosined, polished beauty:

cased.

But you finger away,

while you impatiently wait on the train,

not letting go of your innate movements.

Your thick, black rimmed glasses

hide your eyes and your depth from the people who stare;

imagining a quiet,

strange,

monotone man.

But they frame the colorful world you see.

Each look: a note;

each sound: a new bar.

No need for your carefully tuned violin.

Your brain bursts with ringlet strings,

plenty to keep you playing all day.

Despite those deep shades of brown in your locks,

colors seep

as you finger with the clacks of the train.