Some things just beg to be written about.

The Intercontinental UFO 61 by Viscount

The only other place was by internet auction
where hoards of them gather in Italy
collection only. An ideal proposition of itself, this one

had its whawha button still, its solid wooden box.
It had rained outside the Baptist church
but still it worked, still it begged your organist fingers.

How strange to think of notes of ceremony
drifting from this and your long-gone double,
the marriages it must have been a soundtrack to.

How strange to see it here at first, and the glee
it still had power over in your attic room.
The precise square of sellotape

you used to keep a constant C
is bequeathed with all the stick gone out of it.
Sometimes I put on your song and play along,

conjure you into this thin air I breathe
so high up here without you
and your skilled eclectic fingers.