I will be ninety-five

I will be ninety-five
and I will play my violin
in the shade of a tree

I will play from memory
for you, for the people
for being under a tree

I will be ninety-five
leathery, hunched, but alive
this is my pension plan:
know me as the violin man

My violin will be three hundred
and ten, old wood that sings
in the young shrubs, and then
becomes the echo of its quietude

I will be ninety-five
and play odes to the songbirds
my heart’s a hiccup
of improvised memories

I will be ninety-five
thank you for listening
thank you for the coins
in my old red fedora

I will be ninety-five
and I will play my violin
and I will a happy man