It’s my father.

Music.

Banjo, Irish folk,

With a Scottish accent

And a flutter of Jazz.

Everything intertwined,

Always moving,

Always turning,

Always out of reach.

It’s me.

Learning the recorder,

Irish jigs, Sully’s,

Play them faster,

Fingers moving

Without instruction.

Always moving,

Always turning,

Always out of reach.

It’s him and me.

A pro and a child.

The goal, the same,

The distance different

Music not connecting,

Evading the point.

Always moving,

Always turning,

Always out of reach.