I spy the guitar case in the corner.
“Ask him to play.”
We have to get something
into his hands
besides that gun.
Music was always my savior.
Maybe it’ll be his too.
He tries a few tunes
by candlelight
on the living room sofa,
but his fingers seem numb,
his voice, starved.
Krista looks dubious.
“Mickey’s much better than this,” I tell her.
“He got accepted to a conservatory,
but don’t bring that up.
>
He’s not going.”
I answer her quizzical look with,
“Because of the money.”
Mickey stops
at the start
of the third verse.
“I forget the rest.
You should go.”
He looks through her,
toward the hallway,
toward the bedroom,
toward the gun.
“Wait!”