Be it so:
The piano.
The keys.
The catalyst hands
carved from oak
stenciled in stone:
Principesa.
Be it so:
Without a cover,
uninsulated air dust
diluting one-by-one—
fields of fallen follicles.
Be it so:
Metallic veins rusted from
dehydrated vibrations
swing at a fingertip
strokes that stem
serenading sounds
of phantasmagoria;
line-dancing.
Be it so:
The voices.
The whispers.
The humming.
An aptitude for attitudes.
A sway of the cranium
in the form of an
upside down protractor—
subtle, yet generates inertia.
Be it so:
Skim a transcribed note sheet—
a meticulous, methodical, memorization
of sanitizing notes
hanging from line segments and
portraying shuffled majors
or shallow minors—
glass-cracked tropes.
Be it so:
Illiterate eyes—
Black–ink–blind.
Plain white paper.
Rhythm–mixed–rhyme
makes for a harmonious
elephant waltz
perhaps; any permutation of
magisterial mahogany.
Be it so:
Frolic with the right.
Scamper with the left.
The in-between.
Each essential, to the fracturing
of the piano–cuento–prose.
Be it so:
Principesa.
Amore.
Once a year,
taken out of
the cricket shadows
from the attic.
“Let it breathe,” you say.
“Set it free.”
Those chapped,
desert lips
once told me
it takes two
or three,
never less
to tickle a key.