Perhaps I should not
sniff rosin while I practice,
but I cannot help if it
had gotten on my nose,
somehow, when I accidentally smacked
myself with the hairs of the bow.
It smelled like
violin bows screeching along strings,
sawing out some Mozart symphony
to the beat of a drumming monkey.
Much as a worm would
inch along a sloppy sidewalk,
squish squish squish.
I wiped my skin and dust of
__vibrating under horse hair running
__along a trembling bridge,
__trying to keep steady and toned
__and avoid falling into
__the murky water beneath
rubbed onto my index finger.