Two Triangles

There are two triangles in shot,

Both holding up the music, in their way

One, the insistent metronome, whose lot

Is to be inconsistently ignored as I play,

Stumbling and noodling Bach,

Fumbling gently in the dark,

Adolescently, with nothing new to say

Yet imagining the while

I am speaking great profundity, with style.

It keeps the right time, wound tight, all day,

But does not chime in sweetly, (falsely?) 

Like the slightly fast clock, 

Winding down the weight of years away.

The other, just a stick, a prop,

Pushing back against the weight of music on the stand,

As dependable as the other, a steady hand,

Both restrain the music, never let it drop,

Yet drop by drop it runs, rain and tears flowing,

Down the slope, hypotenuse

Of hope, length equal to the sum of the square

Of the whole pythagorean scale, showing

All the minor hues, or ancient Greek blues,

Remaining, retaining, lingering, restraining care,

Setting measures, parameters for despair, 

Are yet long ago departed into thin air.