I can't remember the first time I heard music,
but my mother says she set the stereo to max volume,
and every beat she felt went through me.
The days and doctors grew impatient,
when there was a risk of my mother playing a flat note.
I was salvaged from the doctors' idiotic thought of
Let's kill a baby, but let us not waste too much time feeling the beat.

I can't remember the first time I heard music,
but I remember the trash that muted my father away with
metronomic drops of liquor kissing his tongue.

I can't remember the first time I heard music,
but I remember the number one hits my neighbor gave to a cop,
as the background noise to sirens rang the call of his death.

I can't remember when everyone lost their place.
I just remember sitting in the theater,
watching the frantic instruments struggle to play music,
when a man stood up and yelled,
“Where is our director?”