I’m the cook’s little shield, tied snugly in place, often dusted with flour from chest to waist.

I am the frozen lake, and the ghosting of a heart, The violent shadow squad that tears a life apart. The fading arctic clock, the floor where skaters glide, And the flashing diamond chains where hip-hop stars take pride. What am I?

I’m soft in the middle, with lines running through, and catch all the things that are handed to you.

I am the old soul muttering from the back row. My voice wears boots and occasionally trips over them. Give me a reed and I will grumble beautifully. When the orchestra gets serious, I bring the eyebrows.

I gently weep when certain bugs come calling. My neck has frets, though worry is not my style. Heroes make me sing, lovers make me lie. Pick at me enough and I will tell your favorite stories.