In the jingle jangle morning
The pushy winter wind,
Like an angry piano player,
Slams the window panes with rain.
You have no train to catch,
No special calling, but
Your vile body has its needs…
Time to practise your scales.
Lunchtime was for liaisons?
The anonymity of a crowded bar;
Talking to anybody, as if you knew
Where you were going, and
You just might take them too…
Now there’s not so many
Beats to the bar.
In the evening, with
A queasy kind of desperation, you ate,
You walked the family dog;
You learnt to evade the constant television
By buying a piano that you could not play –
But you played it anyway; repeating
Complex patterns that resembled music,
Which in time became a
Rigorously constructed escape tunnel – and
You put your heart into that.
© Robert Burkall Marsh