Men are bashing the old upright on the sidewalk

and taking it away; it’s a fantastic sound,

like heaven's clamor and racket ascending,

wood clacking and wires sprung to sour din

of sharps, like my grief so out of tune,

or ivory bones in the drive, and hammers

scattered form a puzzle, the undone

history of this house; here a man made things

and pulled them down, it was the instrument,

the instrument! we said, not you

he smashed, ivory and wire, G major,

pounded the sustain, whispers and sighs,

the din again, to echoing Looney Tunes and spooned

Cheerios, Saturday milk, and now

every breaking apart celebrated sour and loud—

we all hammered away at this sorry

thing to beat all sins and instruments at fault,

as I might myself be a false broken thing

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