dear Hanna,

if you received correspondence
from my husband (Old Fart),
kindly disregard him.

i hear the live shows played
each morning from your computer
& it’s not a sound i mind –
choruses, refrains, muted
by insulation & wood beams
sound like whistles on old trains or
the drone of mourning doves
& could make no more disturbance
than movies, except that music
doesn’t sound like movies,
& i’m not so curious about movies.

much to the contrary of Old Fart,
i hope you’ll go on playing these.
the quiet dead of morning needs
your interruption like breakfast.
Old Fart, for his part, often sleeps
through it all, incapable of a proper
listen or appreciation, & wrote you with
one side of his brain instead of two.
(he seems inclined toward this
lifestyle ever since age 32 when
a paint bucket tipped off a ledge
& struck him & stole his joy)

as i can only appreciate the muffled
mystery of your music, please
do not tell Old Fart which songs
or provide him any links. sometimes
i think he’s bitter & wants
my joy stolen too.

your downstairs neighbor,
Arlene (Mrs. Old Fart)