There is But A Small Chance

Of failure when we first opened the box
When the machinery inside insists on being useless
There is but a chance, but we try
For the melody in the music box is something
We must hear
Eager to know if the little figure built
Of materials as solid as metal
And as flimsy as lace
Will twirl around with proper accompaniment
Of the sweet, tilting, music
We sat eager and afraid
Of the faces we’ll project
When the whole thing fails, but we gather
We gamble and we try
The chance is something small
And the box is something worn
Used and passed around to people
Who don’t appreciate the rusted music
And the thin, bell-like rendition of one of Mozart’s
Compositions
We try and push on
For we both realise that we need to hear
That shining music again, and so we wind it up
With concerted effort on both of us, faces strained
With effort, fingers grasping the little handle
And we place our fingers together on the box
Hoping we’ll like the outcome
Hoping we’ll stand again if it were truly broken
Lying dusted in an antique shop
Along with dolls named hopes
And trucks named dreams
Rusted, the figure will not spin that repetitive dance
That slow senseless dance that means only one thing
That it isn’t about something about aesthetic
That what the box needs are grease to make the mahinery work
And toil to turn around, along it’s axis
The dancer of our fates
So we wait
Along with the anticipation of dismay, but taunt
With the promise of the regeneration of something old
Something forgotten
Edging on broken things with nothing but a miniscule risk
And the ultimate payoff
But so we open it
And hope we are not dismayed