The Baby Grand

THE BABY GRAND The black baby grand, Caressed by a slender finger, By a young, red-haired’s fair, small hand, (With her russet curlicues in a bow) Emits cadences that languishing, linger From the royal nook of the lady’s parlor, Where she gazes through the stained-glass window Upon the florid, turquoise harbor; (A wave ascends, then reels, Circling down to the watercress.) Her patrician dress (One might confess) While modest, reveals Her soft, lavish knees, Where lilac-scented harmonies Ring from that medieval chamber, Out into the garden below, Through the half-open, bluish panes, Where the dahlias, slumbering, waver Now to and fro, now high, now low, Kissed by those amber, ghostly strains. JOHN LARS ZWERENZ