the bandoneons
are here to share a tale
of the inborn conquest
that binds us all
and then kills us all

that of impassioned men
with the pink goggles
(an old story, I’m sure,
if you know me)

and their women
weaving through
mazes built by
the etudes
out of the mouth
of an accordion
or, when
they are absent
or can no longer wheeze,
the phonograph

the quarter notes
found in their
very own kind
of iron maiden
known to the
who-knows
as concertinas

boneheads
tapping their
wands from
the stand,
mumbling their
monosyllabic
soliloquies
dragging for
the who-knows

and well,
do you know?

say to me
you are not grainy
say you are
not the husky voice
permeating through
the warm wind
like a harsh cologne
brusque as it is
on our legs