Max repairing a cello

The maple belly of the cello
is above his head; scroll
resting at the top of his
knee cap. A seductive
posture possess him as
he pays me no mind, full
concentration on the pegs.
Long fingers turning, shifting,
tightening. Palm circles the
shaft, massages the ribs,
searching for any hints of
imperfection.

Later, when he moves his
hands over me, I cannot help
but wonder if he is searching
for those same flaws. There
are dimples, arches, curves,
corners, dark places on my
body where no amount of
love can smooth.

There are drawers above him,
filled up with nuts and bolts,

I want so much to be as easily
perfected as this instrument.