Riding the elevator down
to the basement, the university
music professor warns that it might
feel a little creepy down there.

Though I spent time with bands
and percussion instruments in this
building more than a half century ago,
I’ve not been in its bowels.

But an old xylophone lives there
in a huge room of extra instruments,
and the kind professor drags it
into the long tube of hallway

where, with the first strike of a mallet,
I know it is the perfect practice place.
Just as my mother and three other
quartet ladies loved to warm up

in a tiled bathroom, as I know to look
for a hard-surface floor on which
to park a marimba or xylophone,
I learned long ago to appreciate

the resonance of a pure space,
even with a bit of echo, to practice.
Even better to do so solo where
I am the only one hearing

the hits and misses on xylophone
keys that, on this vintage model,
have literally taken many beatings
but still sound OK. Not unlike

the old girl percussionist trying
to get her chops back after a long
absence, running the same passages
again and again, till she gets it,

if not perfectly, then better
with each try, regaining long-ago
confidence and a little more
competence with every note.