He Loved Pianios
Bechstein, Blüthner, Steinway or Fazioli,
even an archaic Pianoforti,
long had he craved to play them all.
He was in love with their shape and sheen,
their sweeping contours, their circuit bodies.
He loves the sensuality of maple and spruce,
those handcrafted mahogany torsos,
the sprung brass of muted pedals,
deep resonations
within a grand iron skeleton
a tri-legged, beast of beauty,
built to create the most delicate of nocturns,
or a thumping Hungarian Rhapsody.
He would run his fingers,
over their curvaceous sable forms
allow fingertips to caress un-played keys,
the almost erotic white and black harmony
beneath a chaste lid.
He imagines playing
for a lady in crinoline perhaps,
and he the intense composer
of unspoken desires.
Sad to say,
his clumsy laptop fingers,
clattered upon that keyboard,
his coda forever silent.
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