Sitting stiff next to the piano bench
I  follow the notes spread out
flying by too fast for me to keep up. 

The pianist plays the written music
as if trapped in a timed pop quiz, forcing him
to keep going even if his answers are incorrect.

Molten crescendo rare audience cough
trespass on silent air.  Sugared sound
blankets the stage, honey on a teaspoon. 

According to how the Brahms song affects him
the pianist rocks side to side like Ray Charles.
Time to turn that dreadful page . . .

not Brahms—a Chopin nocturne 
brooding a fountain of magenta
and greys.  The audience nods new rhythm. 

Perspiring, the pianist taps toes.
Arm elongated, I flip the music —now 
a Bach partita measured after romantics.

The audience accepts middle of a Sarabande
pianist piloting fingers prancing.
The next page I turn is scrawled in Bartok

black and white with some brown noise. 
Braving the last screeching chord
the pianist stands to take his bow with a flourish.
     
I exit the stage and wonder if it was my fault.

                                         Copyright 2003 Kathy Wehrenberg