Bête noire
best friend
therapist
curse and godsend.
This clumsy chunk of wood and wire
monument to stubbornness
taught me to be
Queen of Stubborn
immovably
patient and impatient.
I had an itch
way deep
that made me touch the keys.
I had to play.
I cannot remember life without a piano
this love-hate relationship that coddled my inwardness
yet insisted the music go outward
so how can I think of life without it ?
No inanimate object, this,
but a being with breath
spirit
a forgiving affection for me.
Is it disappointed?
I was never great
but I was good.
More, I entered in to a human thing
the thing with music
where
maybe
we all itch.
Is it
finally
gone?
Is it time to send this
wooden person
to the heap of my past
with dolls
and love letters?
