The Piano

Everybody knows somebody

who owns a piano.

Grand, upright, baby, mini,

sleek and shiny, warm and wooden.

 

My piano teacher had

a black Yamaha. Small

enough for her cozy living room.

Big enough for me to fill with rondeaus and minuets.

 

The keys felt clean

like they had be swiped

with a disinfectant wipe.

Or a tissue.

 

Or maybe they were slippery from

dozens of fingertips sliding across

them all day, everyday. My

pinky would slip off the D# key.

 

My teacher told me how when she learned

herself, her teacher would balance

a dime

on the back of her hand as she played.

 

“The curve of your fingers makes

the back of the hand flat.

That’s the proper posture for playing,”

she says.

 

Her teacher would slap

the back of her hand

if it wasn’t curved enough.

She didn’t to me though. I always curved my hand.

 

Everybody knows somebody

who owns a piano. So

I see them everywhere.

It’s been 4 years since I played.

 

I can still feel the curve in my hand.

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