Piano
.
My hands hurt.
I hate that.
Upright piano against blank wall
Dares me to caress it cold.
Mocks, demanding a virtuoso,
Knowing that I have
No aptitude,
Sense of rhythm,
Nor musical understanding
Of its complexities, that I
Can’t make sense of simple black notes
On straight-ruled white paper,
Tell a C clef from a G,
Minor from major, sharp from flat…
What’s worse, I can tell it thinks
That the only music I can play
Using my aching fingers
Is with the wrong keys.
Mine are plastic,
Not ivory, or some man-made
 Facsimile thereof.
Mine tick off time, and don’t sparkle
With rich melody, sweet nocturnes,
Or dramatic crescendos,
Which causes the piano
To smile in its most smug way;
Until I point out
That it’s out of tune.