One husband was violent, the other one

was kind, but none of that really mattered now

that both miserable men were finally gone;

at last my poor mother could be free—

so she ran herself a warm bubble bath

and poured herself a glass of chardonnay;

it was time to do the things she'd meant to do,

she thought, sinking into the hot water,

rubbing her tired feet with a pumice stone:

learn her part to the Bach Double Concerto,

finish transcribing that Paganini piece,

and, of course, make that new CD.

I don't need a man to accompany me, she said,

later sitting tall at Father's piano

and poking her nose into his old music notes.

She started Father's old tape recorder,

and moved her fingers suggestively across the keys.

Then she moved over to the cello:

lifted the long bow and began to coax

a kind of music from the hollow instrument.