At the beginning all the wise men played. <br />They tapped ivory through staid feelings, as <br />Stories, apocryphal but nonetheless moving, <br /> <br />Ended at the point of illusion: <br />The harlot, dithering between black and <br />White pedals still heavier than solos <br /> <br />And pure notes. In that house, in that holy <br />Place of stone, furniture was ignored, <br />Thinking the cause of composition had died, <br /> <br />When the memory of nondescript <br />Improvisation made each room livable, <br />Creating pleasure beyond the mundane. <br /> <br />There's dust on the keys, thick as Mozart's breath. <br />What about rising shadows in tow, <br />How they sit and only stare at the cat <br /> <br />That dances along an unpolished bench. <br />A near fossil, as instruments go, it is <br />Worn and grips the shrillest demise, <br /> <br />Till the tuner enters, tuning their lives, <br />Under the guise of some higher power, <br />That changes when the face of conflict comes.<br /><br />Lamont Palmer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/backroom-piano/
