[Certain]

Let's get this story line all straight. First, time and place:
The day was June third, nineteen ninety-eight,
and I was playing outside the subway stop at Ninth and Lake.
Can't remember if night or day. Well, I guess it was kind of late
because my violin case was lightly weighed down by piles of change.
That's when this man walked by and gave me the wildest gaze
and dropped this rolled-up piece of paper in and smiled and waved.
I acknowledged with a nod but all the while I played,
with no idea what would lie in wait.

Directions. The first was to make a beeline on Lake.
Turn right at the antique shop with the window stacked with china plates.
Finally, wade across that awful traffic circle on Pine and take
a right to a private residence's doorstep. Number five-oh-eight.
(Why'd I follow? Well, the directions came inscribed with grace,
scripted letters promising a prize to take.
Now, I might play a violin for dimes, but I'm no starry-eyed kind of lame.
So I approached with skepticism. Wrote a letter, left it hidden.
Just in case I'd end up missing, this would assign the blame.)

Anyway, I approach the residence, quickly pry the gate.
Knock four times on the door, as the eighth line explains.
It flies open, like some dime-store game magic trick.
I roll my eyes and wait.
The guy, the one who dropped the paper off, comes out from behind a drape.
"Welcome, Terrence. Come inside. There's no time to waste.
He's awaiting you. He's been waiting for so long to find you."
"Wait."
"Yes?"
"Who exactly is this guy who hides his face?"
Now at this point, the other guy just smiled and waved.
He seems to like that. But I'm already this far.
If they wanted me dead, they could easily find a way.
So I just figured, "Sure, why the fuck not?"
But as I walked in, I imagined my own grave.

The room's walls are a dodecagon of mirrors.
They hover there, not reaching to the bottom of the bare floor.
There's a light hanging directly over center, above a chair.
There's no other furniture in the room. There's nothing there.
We're alone: me, the chair and the mirrors.
But as my stomach scares, a voice punctures the air.
"Terrence, thank you for coming. Your face betrays a touch of fear.
But I want to assure you there's nothing to run from, dear."
"Then who are you? Why not just come out here?"
(See, being told I'm safe only makes the discomfort clear.)

"Terrence, I want you to play me a tune.
I don't get out much, but Jeremy tells me you're great on your stoop."
"Umm, well, I didn't bring my violin."
At this point, I'm thinking of bailing on dude,
but a fiddle is lowered from the ceiling. So I figured, I'll take it and prove.
The voice listened. I went with "Danny Boy," a favorite to use
when trying evoke emotion from even the most unsated of fools.
"Terrence," the voice muttered after the final notes had waned and the mood
was somber and chilling and dark and left a weight in the room.
"Terrence, I want to propose an offer."
And that's when he explained it all through:
I was to give him my violin, trade in my tool.
I would never play another note again, so that he could be the last to hear me.
In exchange, he'd give me enough cash for my remaining years.

See, the man behind the voice with the mirror was testing human nature,
and wanted to see if I would abandon my true self for useless paper.
But didn't I already tell you that I'm no stupid pauper?

So I haven't picked up a violin in years, that hobby is dead.
But am I happy? Truly happy?
Well ...
... honestly ...

Yes.