Middle C
used to be
the first
forever imbedded
eared, eyed, and headed
for better or for worst.
The alpha note
small-finger-smote
awaking addiction
family friction
in eventual Czernian bloat.
Oh, the hours misspent
a perpetual Lent
da capo ad nauseam
no break or pauseam
my youth distorted and bent.
Why wasn’t I Rubenstein?
Why only me?
What sadistic muse
designed this ruse
this siren-song’d middle C?
