A Second Guess Sample

If I had it to do over again, I would be a classical composer with chess pieces scattered across the piano lid. I would write pieces wishing I was a ballet dancer with the body of a ballet dancer in the arms and fingers. I have a writer’s words fingers and hands. I stole them from a dream I had once about the only thing I could ever be and do with them. No one has done less with the sweat of hands. Hands anxious from the sweat and do the opposite, too. I would be that composer who makes the most of different staffs and the notes on them. There would be staffs growing from the sides of my grandmother’s garage while she watches televised basketball through the window. She has her statues hanging from the walls above a green couch. I would be that composer to wrap her shoulders in the vines to keep her warm. She would watch her television set away from the cold she grew up with in white margarine containers in her refrigerator. I would write a magnum opus from the mouth of the dead bass above the doorway. I would write it on a violin made from the bass’s stiff gills and flap tail. The music would be that flap I have nothing more to love her with.