"The Day Gary Hinman Died"
I don’t don’t want to tell you this
hacked story of an ear, a slash
across the face, and two stab wounds
that stopped a man’s heart, his fading
tinge of “political piggie”
blood on a white living room wall.
I will tell you this.
I walked the canyon’s hush and peace,
through arid swerves, one colorless
day to Gary’s for piano.
The still and the calm oppressive,
not even the low creek bubbled.
I knock and wait on his gray stairs.
And hear low voices, but no words,
his car down by the road. Ground squirrels
chatter and stop, chatter and stop,
passing cars drown the sound of oak
leaves curling in the shade. He played
music. Piano. Bag pipes. Brass.
Taught music. Taught piano. Would
have taught me, too—God, I hate
this part, this name—too, except that
Charlie killed—had him killed—murdered
that day when there was only a door
between they and my piano
lesson. Even now the sound of
passing cars, squirrels, curling oak leaves—
© 2008 Robyn Holloway
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