Vince Who Breaks Pencils
Frightens me enough to make me sick before lessons
His white hair, pinched eyes, blistered mouth
A master of the Horn, Principle with the
Symphony, the only guy I should study with
So says my Jr. High Band Director who has taken
me as far as he can, being that he’s a woodwind player
So my mother drives me over to his split-level home
even if I’ve thrown up at mine and begged no
And every Monday after school she drops me and waits in the car
watches my slow foot dragging march to the door and
does not witness my descent into that dark hell down
stairs to the right, the room with the orange shag,
the upright piano, two chairs, one music stand, one pencil
the curtsying ritual of opening a horn case on the floor
I’m sure the lighting is more sophisticated than a single bulb
hanging over our workspace studio, but you get the drift of this memory
(Only comfort I recall being the smell of my instrument case, dry,
brassy, valve oil spirits, that chamois rag, like a little baby blanket!)
I learn how to breathe into my fear in that musty room, keep staring past
his cold instruction, his unsmiling face, his shaking head, the
tap of his pencil with irritation or delight, I never know which.
I learn my sweetness is all bullshit to him, that a mandated seriousness
requires me to swallow the stones in my throat and accept
the verbal brutalities of the weekly half hour in the spirit of
betterment for Art’s sake, for my spot in whatever next All-City
All-State-All- Whichamajig, these lessons prepare me for
worst are the days I’m less prepared and he hears it, fury
flaming his face, the bulging veins in his neck, which is
when he snaps the pencil in two in front of my face, staring
hard with blood shot eyes into mine, which brim
tears that I will not let fall. When the pencil break is not clean
he continues to twist the splintered wood in front of my nose
between the sheet music and my blurred line of vision.
He frightens me, yeah. Enough to make me sick for three years.
While he never touches me, the pencil is my body,
mis-performing to his hight standard. I hear him say
“I break you. I shred YOU” every time this happens, which is very few times,
but enough to humble me to daily diligent practice that eludes perfection.
My parents, with little money left for extras in our lives pay this man
and insist I’ll only be letting myself down if I quit-so I don’t. Yet.
Meanwhile, week after week, until I get tough enough, I return to the
car sullen and weak
We ride without speaking back and forth on a road I know I’ll
never take again once I learn to drive.
Early Morning Poems 