I stand at the marimba, snuggled
beneath three fleecy layers to protect
its sweet old rosewood keys,

and confront the marching glockenspiel
on top, the closest thing I have at home
to orchestra bells,

rubber mallets dinging away,
practicing. I find that I have about
15 minutes in me per session,

which makes me both envious
and regretful about how much time
I once spent before bells and marimba,

xylophone, vibraphone, tympani.
Hours. At least an hour for each practice
session, going over and over and over

the notes to find the best stick patterns,
get the rhythms right, tune the tympani
as perfectly as I could get them.

And now, beginning again, I figure I’m
doing well with three or four short
sessions a day. Repetition is key,

I used to tell my students trying to study
for tests. The more times you touch
something, the better you understand it,

says my friend the grammar teacher.
I’m going for frequency, I tell
myself, not that my attention span

has narrowed to the width of
middle C on the bells. Never mind
that my eyes fatigue far faster

than they did a half century ago.
Repetition. Frequency. Repetition.
I’m getting it, I tell myself,

despite the flubs and mistaken
dings and awkward hands.
I’m getting it.