Piano Bench

My ivory instrument has lent me its charms,
forever attuned me to the nature of music.
It's richer than words and more fortunate than paint,
with inward processions of galloping doldrums,
a middle made of caramel, and a top of lace.

I am Jonah inside, with baleen strings.
I jump on the hammers and slide down their curves
when all of a sudden mahogany trips me.
Though I pick it up to try to augment my flat
I've fallen behind and lost all my grace.

I wake on the bench with no blood in my head.
My fingers are swollen and my back is bent.

I've become an old man inside my piano--
its spit is on me; I've not eaten in years.

But the thing that's most worrisome is that the tune's been erased.

Aug. 2002