I had no idea Tom would make me rich.
Blind and crazed, like a blessed up idiot,
he'd sing bluebird songs in perfect pitch,
then bash his head against the wooden box
crib whenever his mother went to chores
in the field. He'd hop around on one leg,
bent over like a giant, pecking bird for
hours, then rattle out tunes on tin cups. I let
him stay out of compassion. Then, one day,
he heard my daughter playing piano—
Haydn, I believe. It was like a weight
fell upon him—a labor to make him whole.
My charity finally got its reward
Who am I to deny this gift to the world?