Born In A Piano

She’s sorry
She longs to atone but won’t
She’s rambling
From west side to east side
To darkness in mid-ranges
Of octaves and half-notes
She was born in a piano
Or at least near one
She does the count backwards
Like a deadline or a shuttle launch

Then

It’s still in the crowd
The song crescendos
The air is taken out of the room
By a collective intake of emotion
That saps the strength, the wisdom
The long deep forgotten
Reach of the descent of all man
Her song ends
The audience applauds

She’s confused
She sweeps her hands across the room
Considers the darkness
And bends to pick up a dropped feathered earring
She loves the spotlight not for what it shows
Of herself to the crowd
But for the dust it illuminates
Like a cast iron skillet with its sparks
And the light is warm too, on the nights she’s cold
Which is most nights
Because she prefers to wear a T-shirt and a sari and a skirt
She prefers that the windows stay open at all times
Why close the universe?

April 2006