He saw it in one of those chintzy antique shops,
recalled that it was made for travelling musicians
that wanted to work out scores while not being overheard.
It was old and all wood. When he tapped the keys
they clacked, but each key seemed to clack
in a slightly different tone,
as if the former pianist’s thoughts and intentions
had somehow imprinted
a musical counterpart into the inarticulate wood.
When he got it home
he took it up and placed it on a table,
stretched stiff fingers and played.
He played like he had never played before!
This was real, not an air-guitar thing.
Chopin and Mozart melodies flowed through his hands
as he sped through deft keyboard exercises,
annotating quarter and eighth notes,
executing perfect tonality and phrase.
Tomorrow he intends to jazz-duet with Oscar Peterson.
'Man, it feels good to be dumb', he thought.
I presumed I perceived an abysmal sigh
The last time I called on my mother's sepulcher
She was though in agreeable amity thereby
Wallowing in God's vicinity and altar
No sooner had I my eyes sealed
She cropped up and resolved the zephyr
Annotating the decencies we've alas spoiled
Ascribe their soul tumult and sever.
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