Violins

He never saw a violin. But he saw a lifetime of violence. This is not to presume That if he had simply seen A violin he would have seen Less violence. Or that living among Violins, as though they were Boulangeries or toppling stacks Of other glazed goods like young adult Fiction, would have made the violence Less crack and more cocaine, Less of course and more why god oh why. More of one thing Doesn’t rhyme with one thing. A swill of stars doesn’t rhyme With star. A posse of poets doesn’t rhyme With poet. We are all in prison. This is the brutal lesson of the 21st century, Swilled like a sour stone Through the vein of the beast Who watches you while you eat; Our eternal host, the chummed fiddler, The better tomorrow, MMXVI.