A Flower Vase on Top of a Piano

My neighbor's piano swirls around her finger likened to a keyed car where scrapes linger. She teases out a tune as we both try to hum along with swirling keys her fingers drum. The naturals and the flats whirl around us as we mount her piano earthbound. Her slap grooves my cheekbone to her hand. The sting grooves with a vinyl record hissing. My neighbor moves between the outlining appearance of a bee in golden gyrations till her swat smacks the bee. Her canter thumps a vase. Calm peonies revolve along its rim as arrangements dissolve. Between her turntable and windowsill's moth rack, the bee puts up a fight. It can't get off its back, an eeriness like a sixth sense that it will cease to bob six legs. Each tonearm's reach needles a crease of dead air. Although the buzzing makes the final cut, the static starts with a vinyl record, this one's translucence as golden as bees in the sunlight. The record plays while the neighbor fusses over a vase of peonies; I brush her ears with small talk till we're both tongue-tied. A high pitch taps a cicada to hide horizons like a mountain-raised shadow smoothing out summer's every echo. Dark accidentals cascade into ghost-white keys. The sun-licked honey floats its naturals till a petal at the windowsill moats its musk around the bee's indoor husk. A pesticide breeze platters the buzz-freeze fellow on its back warped in sunshine like a vinyl record with an overheated edge, the record, in turn, pedaling peonies and pianos