In the living-room, only the grand piano remains,
black and shiny, like an insect
trapped on the ground, one wing extended
as if trying to fly right before death caught up with it.
The sound would be different now
with no furniture around,
no books to soften the notes,
no rug to dampen the low vibrations.
I never learned to play
and now the piano seems to epitomize
the black bulk of my regrets...
On a whim I sit in front of it.
I let my fingers flow as they will,
my mind wonders
and I drift away for a while.
After I don't know how long, I stop.
The sound is different in an empty room...
and with a trace of exc