I neither play nor watch sports...,

actually role as spectator
not to my liking,
but exception made
listening to music
doing a dance
such as zydeco
which can be done
while drafting a poem
oh and please
pardon the interruption
as yours truly prevaricates
no surprise this tactic
while wordsmith doth tergiversate
summoning forth ghost of dear old ma
(courtesy a small medium at large)
so I can sit back
while simultaneously
beholding late mama
of mine play cello,
cause she went to her grave
(actually she got cremated
twenty one years ago
come May 5th, 2026),
nevertheless her ethereal spirit
draws the bow
across string plucking
said popular bass instrument -
special for its remarkably
human-like, rich,
and warm tone,
often considered
the most expressive voice
in the string family
boasting a massive
four-octave range,
allowing said musical implement
to function equally
as a deep, rhythmic bass
or a soaring, melodic soloist,
she played seated
with an endpin,
blending deep resonance
with versatile, lyrical capabilities
such somber pieces
frequently arranged for solo cello
or cello ensemble
at funerals including
Bach’s Sarabande
from Cello Suite No. 5,
Saint-Saëns' The Swan,
and Fauré's Elegy, Opus 24,
or other common choices
for the cello's deep,
resonant tone including
Albinoni's Adagio
and of course
last but not least playing
"The Parting Glass"
all the while doing tricks
with a yoyo
attached to the end of the bow
called the frog
(or sometimes referred to
as the heel or nut)
and usually made of ebony,
holds the horsehair,
and contains the mechanism
(screw and button)
used to tighten
or loosen the hair.

Yes...I miss her magnificent voice
but again don't be duped videre licet,
the above and following
lines factual, cus they ain't),
cuz more pleasure
derived from fabricating
non-factual scenarios
that could hypothetically
seem possible,
this technique incorporated
to tap into the well spring
of my wild imagination,
which most pronounced
during rapid eye movements
of a profoundly deep sleep,
but unfortunately
nary an iota of dreams
(sometimes including star wars)
recalled upon waking
at approximately
seven o'clock ante meridiem
even if yours truly
went to bed a short time before
usually the downside
of energy powder
leaving mine body electric lifeless,
and ofttimes the missus
called the ambulance
while she happened
to be in a frenzy state,
and even at the hospital
doctors pronounced me
dead as a doornail
and undertook
preliminary measures
to prepare grave crisis
as a naked lunch
for the grim reaper
typically moved
to a hospital morgue
or a funeral home's cold storage/
mortuary to await identification,
autopsy, or final arrangements
where said corpse
then prepared for final disposition
through burial, cremation,
or donation to science.