Tom Sheehan 

Solo Shot

One winter in Korea
a violin went awry,
sound waves thin as
tracers or wires
snipped, cut loose
from redwood stain,
danced over snowfields,
up the mountain hold,
shattered wet air
with heart’s recovery,
tore stiletto quick
in snow’s embalmment,
feather down’s triple
blanketing and brawn
as some player played defilade,
urged deft hands and arms
into the spelling, matched
awed sounds in his head
to passage of fingertips,
as another finger squeezed
a trigger’s tantrum and
Billy Pigg died in my arms
just as one high note
froze on frigid air
visible forever, his
last eyes on my face.
song-less, hearing but
a single note.

Tom Sheehan is in his 91st year and has published 36 books, with 7 more submitted this year, whose cardiologist said just yesterday at his semi-annual check-up, “Keep moving.”