the piano

The Piano

The piano tuner is in the big room, the one with
tall windows covered by see-through curtains.
On walls hang ancestors, serious looking men
fully bearded, in black and white, died, they did,
long before colours were invented. Women too,
on pictures, look gravely at the camera, but they
hang on less vital walls. Polished parquet floor,
a few armless chairs, placed along a wall, don’t
look inviting. The tuner has dramatic, wavy hair
wears sunglasses and doesn’t see. The upright is
black and varnished, I only keep it so the lady in
chiffon with a rose in her hair, should come one
night, when the wind blows leaves off tree, and
play me a melody of love.