Monday, August 24, 2015

Piano by Patrick Phillips


Piano

Touched by your goodness, I am like   
that grand piano we found one night on Willoughby   
that someone had smashed and somehow   
heaved through an open window.   

And you might think by this I mean I’m broken   
or abandoned, or unloved.   Truth is, I don’t   
know exactly what I am, any more   
than the wreckage in the alley knows   
it’s a piano, filling with trash and yellow leaves.   

Maybe I’m all that’s left of what I was.   
But touching me, I know, you are the good   
breeze blowing across its rusted strings.   

What would you call that feeling when the wood,   
even with its cracked harp, starts to sing?


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