This poem was recently revised, and due to formatting problems has been re-posted out of chronological order. 

Still Life, With Man and Piano

Sept 4 2007

Seated man

at black piano

seen from behind.

In the picture, he isn’t clear,

but reminds me of brown corduroy

and thick wool sweaters.

Perhaps, he has not yet started to play.

Or perhaps, he has already finished;

listening, ear cocked,

as the last note lingers

then slowly decays.

Or perhaps, at this very moment

he is immersed in music,

streaming around and over

his softly stooped form.

Sure hands

coaxing sound

from this great black box.

Its heavy wooden body

like a massed choir

in matching robes.

The high ebony gloss

of its lacquered finish.

The glittering keys, like polished teeth

open wide.

And taut steel strings

reamed-up to lethal tension.

Or perhaps, just now

he is contemplating the score.

His head full of sound and fury

in a room all dusty silence,

broken only

by the tick-tick-tick of the clock.