BOY AT THE PIANO

When the last drop glistens at the bottom of my glass,
The sun slips away and the day is at its rest,
He lopes into the room and sits at the piano;
I fold up my paper, for it’s time I like the best.
No matter that shirt tails hang out of his trousers.
He riffles through sheets, his back straight and lean,
His fingers long and slender as they reach to
Stroke the keys, which care not that they are unclean,
Or that he might smell from hot classrooms
And hours  of putting balls in baskets or over nets.
So, he sits very quietly, and I quieter still.
The collie with a sigh, lies at his feet and forgets
About her walk, and squirrels in the park.
For a while we are eavesdroppers to the tone
And mood of chords and harmonies he creates,
And shares with his instrument alone.
Sometimes, but seldom he plays Moonlight Sonata
As the composer surely intended, with sensitivity and skill.
Then I sense tumultuous urgings of his adolescent soul
That cannot find an out let on the sportsfield and will
One day find fulfilment… till then his feelings are
Expressed this way, Which understands what he cannot say.
But most times he plays jazz with its syncopated rhythms
Or haunting blues, or ragtime with its complicated score.
Then at last, but all too soon, the lid comes down.
“I’ve had enough,” he says, when I tell him I want more.

© Lynne Harris