clara

clara   down at the fourth street pub and grill most folks sat around the bar while one played to her hearts content wishing to someday become a star   clara tinkered on her beat-up steinway with whiskey glasses neatly stacked as her fingers found the waiting keys she poured out her soul where talent lacked   alternating softly between sharps and flats ebony and ivory and nothing between tears steadily fell into her latest glass dreams and visions not as they seemed   stains of soured whiskey touched the rim where red lipstick dried like her empty kiss she tickled the keys with a sad love song but the smooth ivory bars were much too stiff   numb fingers stopped her cold on one song she knew there was nothing more to say so clara stood and quietly bowed to none for to no one in particular she refused to play   clara left dejected and alone that night whiskey glasses still stacked high and no one missed her when she was gone though she had really wanted to say goodbye   now only one respectful gentleman visits her placing twelve white roses on her grave as he recalls the girl who played the steinway and the joyous moments of music she gave