Mr. Hanley’s Accordion

on summer nights

Mr. Hanley’s accordion

coughs its way down the block

gasping like a donkey

with opinions about tempo

no song ever sounds the same twice

except for the part

where it gets worse

I lie in bed

holding my breath to listen

like the music might get better

if I can choke its oxygen

at the festival each year

he parks himself

next to the cotton candy machine

like a guardian of spun sugar

bellows groaning
over every pink cloud

Mrs. Pelsky thanks him kindly

says it’s such a treat
to have music with our sweets

and no one dares correct her

because she’s older than dirt

and kind as sunrise

later, I’m on my porch

plucking clumsy notes

from my new tenor banjo

when Mr. Hanley waves me over

from the cave of his open garage

we play

the most terrible duet in town

notes bumping into each other

like blindfolded cousins at a wedding

we laugh so hard we almost forget

to keep making noise

when we finally stop

he pats my shoulder

says you’re learning
your banjo well

I’ve been playing forty years

and I still don’t know what I’m doing

for a moment

the silence afterward

feels like applause