At the beginning all the wise men played.
They tapped ivory through staid feelings, as
Stories, apocryphal but nonetheless moving,
Ended at the point of illusion:
The harlot, dithering between black and
White pedals still heavier than solos
And pure notes. In that house, in that holy
Place of stone, furniture was ignored,
Thinking the cause of composition had died,
When the memory of nondescript
Improvisation made each room livable,
Creating pleasure beyond the mundane.
There's dust on the keys, thick as Mozart's breath.
What about rising shadows in tow,
How they sit and only stare at the cat
That dances along an unpolished bench.
A near fossil, as instruments go, it is
Worn and grips the shrillest demise,
Till the tuner enters, tuning their lives,
Under the guise of some higher power,
That changes when the face of conflict comes.
Lamont Palmer
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/backroom-piano/
