Greeting Card Maker | Poem Art Generator

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The Player Piano
I ate pancakes one night in a Pancake House
Run by a lady my age.
She was gay.

When I told her that I came from Pasadena
She laughed and said, "I lived in Pasadena
When Fatty Arbuckle drove the El Molino bus.
"

I felt that I had met someone from home.

No, not Pasadena, Fatty Arbuckle.

Who's that? Oh, something that we had in common
Like -- like -- the false armistice.
Piano rolls.

She told me her house was the first Pancake House

East of the Mississippi, and I showed her
A picture of my grandson.
Going home --
Home to the hotel -- I began to hum,
"Smile a while, I bid you sad adieu,
When the clouds roll back I'll come to you.
"

Let's brush our hair before we go to bed,
I say to the old friend who lives in my mirror.

I remember how I'd brush my mother's hair
Before she bobbed it.
How long has it been
Since I hit my funnybone? had a scab on my knee?

Here are Mother and Father in a photograph,
Father's holding me.
.
.
.
They both look so young.

I'm so much older than they are.
Look at them,
Two babies with their baby.
I don't blame you,
You weren't old enough to know any better;

If I could I'd go back, sit down by you both,
And sign our true armistice: you weren't to blame.

I shut my eyes and there's our living room.

The piano's playing something by Chopin,
And Mother and Father and their little girl

Listen.
Look, the keys go down by themselves!
I go over, hold my hands out, play I play --
If only, somehow, I had learned to live!
The three of us sit watching, as my waltz
Plays itself out a half-inch from my fingers.
Written by: Randall Jarrell