The Piano Tuner
The rain clouds gather outside and
I see his umbrella bouncing over the hedge.
I hear him enter the gate with case in hand;
He slowly closes the gate and heads for the door.
A light knock reverberates into the library,
I hear the door close and his soft voice say,
“Good evening ma’am, I’m here for a tuning”.
She takes his coat and he heads for the gold leaf piano.
He removes mother’s lace carefully from atop,
He neatly sets it on the maroon divan.
He opens his case of tools with ease,
No rush does he have in his bones.
Like clock work, I know what he’s doing,
Without stepping foot out of the library.
He repeatedly strikes the keys in tune.
Using his trusty rubber mute.
After an hour or so I hear the case close,
He gently puts mother’s lace back.
He pops his fingers and gives it a try.
He tickles the ivories with frailness.
He plays from mother’s hymnal book.
His fragile fingers play the song,
‘Power in the blood’ as he hums along.
I love when he comes to revive the piano.
I hear him politely tell the maid he’s all done,
She hands him his coat with check, the door softly closes.
The rusty gate shuts as the umbrella bounces,
Over the hedge and he fades away from my view.
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