He opens his hands, shrugs. He says
What I make is all fake, there’s no
song and dance. Let’s say it’s a Thursday.
We are walking down into the city
through the late night cars, drunks,
the cleaning squad in yellow dayglo.
Let’s say the ambulance is wailing
its two notes poor boy, poor boy,
is Leonardo, the maker of instruments,
all fake, a man I seldom meet, for both us
this is how it is here: grainy, fleeting.
He continues: As to this instrument
by which I am accused yes it is my making
though how became it a Capela, so sold
and listed, why that I cannot tell you.