The Accordion Salesman
*
*
*A tall thin man in a gray suit comes to my door
with accordion keys for teeth
He smells like a salesman
His lapel pin reads, “Milton Mann Accordion Studios.”
He pulls out a 120 base Contello Accordion
Silver with red keys
Stretching out the bellows
angels fly from between them.
His hair is a raging fire of notes
F sharps twirling up in smoke
“ Here Kid!”He hands me the Contello.
It covers my body like a partial eclipse
I pull out the bellows and squeeze
Notes fly from the reeds like startled birds
“You are a natural kid.”
We sign on the dotted line
He smiles
Shakes my hand
and walks away carefully as not to
trip over his tail.
It is “120 bass”. The keys were white. You put up the poem up on my birthday. The Contello is stealing my love for the other instruments. It is so limited. And I can’t get the buzz in the bass silenced. But it almost plays itself, and it sings with the soul of a violin. Perhaps one has been crushed into its frame like a dog into a dike.
This is too funny. That is exactly what happen to me as a young boy. That is how I stumbled across this poem, looking to see how much my 30 something year old accordian is worth. My father bought the accordian from Milton Mann. I think I remember Milton hanging at the school in downtown Santa Ana, in the late 70’s. I just wish this salesman that came knocking on our door was from the Milton Mann Electric Guitar Co., but at any rate, it was an experience.