The Lonely Accordion

With all his strength,
He pushes the bellows together
And deftly articulates the sound
With his nimble fingers.

He plays old French songs,
Rarely heard since his youth;
Rarely heard in America.

The sweet waltz fills his dusty apartment,
And a breeze comes through the open window,
Carrying the volatile sounds of the city.

At the last of his strength,
He sets his soul down
And whispers:
"No one reads me like you."