The Accordion Salesman
March 15th, 2010 § 2 Comments
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.
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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.