Practice
Jan 19 2011


I practiced badly
on the 2nd hand piano
at the far end of the basement rec room,
kitty-corner from the ping pong table.
It was layer-on-layer of dull brown paint,
with the crackled finish
of a real antique.
Keys like coffee-stained teeth
a spinning seat,
cork-screwing up and down
as I sent it flying.
Which was vastly more entertaining
than Twinkle Twinkle Little Star;
about as far as I got
in piano.

What fascinated me more was the metronome,
keeping its steady pace
unflappable, self-contained.
And in all these years
I see they haven’t changed, or been replaced
by some electronic gizmo.
How attractive,
the simple elegance
the perfect balance
of this mysterious mechanical device.
Like a jewel box, tastefully unadorned
its smoothly tapered form
is burnished wood,
dark, and deeply polished.
And its inexhaustible tap-tap-tap,
as magical
as perpetual motion.

I am told
even the greatest pianist insists on one.
Because he is susceptible to the common problem
of acceleration,
playing faster and faster
absorbed in his art.
Much as life gets faster and faster
as we age;
until all of a sudden
the music runs out.

With an exquisite touch
first hard, then soft
he caresses the keyboard like a man making love.
Infatuated with her beauty
with his power to make her sing, and sigh, and shriek
he must learn to practice restraint,
the subtle pleasure
of patience.

I want to set the metronome in motion
just to feel its measured beat,
the satisfying tap-tap-tap
as it ticks, hypnotically.
Exactly what I need
when I see her again,
my pulse quickening
my heart skipping beats.

When a man
who is badly out of practice
will go far too fast.
Become a falling star
that briefly flares
. . . and is gone.