Dischord and Rhapsody felt as one.
no rest for a beset mind
scanning a dim-lit screen
in adjacent kitchen.
Each discordant key echoes
off bay windows
into the open area shared.
Rests between keenly measured notes
plod along a spectrum of sound.
Sagging strings resonate
inside an upright Baldwin.
Once rich mahogany; faded by sunlight,
stained by coffee, marred by the talons
of unrepentant felines, sturdily depresses
carpet not seen in 12 years --
rolled away once for an errant toy,
the pianist's favorite when he was four.
Dust bunnies faux mortar tarnished pedals.
Music sheets land like forgotten playthings,
stick out from bench and beneath stacks
of bygone verses stickered with gold stars.
Sophisticated markings now smudge crimped pages
that 'Good Job!' stickers upon a time would adorn.
Hinges on puckered folders of notes askew.
Pages taped up like paper doll cutouts
dance along the edge, daringly stare at the ground
from their cliff precarious, never falling.
The master deftly pushes back each teetering truant,
free hand, not missing those plucky levers
wired to hammers percussing rhapsodic rhythms,
begging still the piano tuner tighten lines
for his daring, high-wire act.