Ukulele

There’s a comfort
In knowing I know more than
My Dog Has Fleas
Plucked across the strings

It may seem strange
That I spend some time
At lunch softly tugging the strings
Of something other than someone else’s heart

But it’s all connected–
The writing the playing
And my singing
The last of me you don’t know about

Instead of trying to play a song
The way someone else wanted it done
I honor their work by playing it closely
And try to complement it with my own voice–

But you won’t catch me
Singing something
Along my ukulele in my cubicle

Maybe in a gathering of friends
But I haven’t done that in a long time