Boy at the Piano

When the last drop glistens at the bottom of my glass,

The sun slips away and the day is at its rest,

He lopes into the room and sits at the piano;

I fold up my paper, for its the time I like the best.

No matter that shirt tails hang out of his trousers.

He riffles through sheets, his back straight and lean,

His fingers long and slender as they reach to

Stroke the keys, which care not that they are unclean,

Or that he might smell from hot classrooms

And hours of putting balls in baskets or over nets.

So, he sits very quietly, and I quieter still.

The collie with a sigh, lies at his feet and forgets

About her walk, and squirrels in the park.

For a while we are eavesdroppers to the tone

And mood of chords and harmonies he creates,

And shares with his instrument alone.

Sometimes, but seldom he plays Moonlight Sonata

As the composer surely intended, with sensitivity and skill.

Then I sense tumultuous urgings of his adolescent soul

That cannot find an outlet on the sportsfield and will

One day find fulfilment... till then his feelings are

Expressed this way, which understands what he cannot say.

But most times he plays jazz with its syncopated rhythms

Or haunting blues, or ragtime with its complicated score.

Then at last, but all too soon, the lid comes down.

"I've had enough," he says, when I tell him I want more.

© Lynne Harris