Like an invalid
it took up the corner.
Banished from heaven
by the electric lutes
and oboe
of the organ,
it went out
of tune
at the empty
hands of children.
Children loved
the grin
under the dark,
hinged lip.
They would lift
and bang
their tuneless jubilee.
“Bring me your quick,”
it sang.
The game was
who could play
and snatch
their hands back
before the fall
of the lid.
“Children, children,”
it called,
“bring me your fingers.”
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