Tennyson, You Forget That I Have Never Slept

The brown-bent figure in the shabby suit
hunched over the organ (like it would save his soul)
stretched his fingers habitually,
cramming the weary morning with coffee and the
honey-colored sun that dyes the pews.
-
The organ is sighing through it's huge lungs,
remembering the way eight fine souls were
buried in soft wet earth. Organist is disheveled,
autistic, but right. He knows what to say
when she says goodbye. He's no Tennyson,
but he has sleepless nights around an old
brown radio, dreaming of static and a thin
white arm. He leans on his knees, worn shoes
forward like the cover of his story. He never
learned today's words, and he still calls girls
'my dear' and takes his hat off when he speaks
to fathers. Twists it in his hands. Finds solace
in the colossus of the pipe organ, lending its
voice to the weary dusty people, its shine to
the silent aching people. Lending him its power
and he is not frail today. Organist, don't turn.
--
Make certain you know what you're getting
into before you open a book of hymns. There
are other reasons to sing than because your
soul needs washing. Things like organs echo
and don't turn away from the organist. The
water falls on your shoulders in your soul.
--
In chanting script, they write his obituary,
but all he ever read was note of music. He
had nothing to say to you. You have nothing
you know of him. You don't believe you can
understand why they try to play organ music
at his funeral, when all he ever did was murmur
broken words and rock in his seat when some
interloper was given his place at the organ.
--
Tennyson, you forget that I was saving myself
for the organist and his piano fingers. You don't
have one thing to give me with your reasoning
structure of beauty. You forget that I understood
his insomnia, broken phrases, his need for a better,
larger set of lungs to speak his mind. Organs and words.

Tennyson, you forget that I have never slept