Poem: Desafinado

Life is a melody played repeatedly

By millions and billions of musicians

All trying, with various levels of success, to make the song sound right.

The normal hallmarks of practice — repetition, interminable repetition — don’t apply here, for there are no second chances, no do-overs at the beginning, no opportunity to return to the place where the mistake was made, where the song began to sound ugly and unlovely.

And so we bleat.

We ululate.

We raise our plaintive voices to the heavens,

Never mute, but slightly out of tune.

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