THE PIANO (AFTER WALLACE STEVENS)

I
curved black expanse
lacquered with worn ebony
patches of red wood sparkle through
and the keys stand militarily
long retired but shiny white still
little soldiers at attention
jut out from the dark hulk of the piano

II
silver petals curl from its belly
three pedals all reflecting the underside
of the keyboard in their shiny faces
thick swirling legs close in the hollow
space, the little cave under the keys
a quiet place so near to potential din
who would think to hide out there?
among dust bunnies and dusky smell
only little bare feet fold up

III
The piano twirls on its brass wheels
making loops around the room
to a lilting waltz, leading it to and fro
one. two, three
one. two, three
spinning and racing the metronome
the wheels squeak, leaving light streaks on the flooring
the piano begins to lift with the music
floating up and up, its strong back elevating first
whirling, leaking notes out of every crack
bumping against the ceiling, crying for the walls to open
so that it may whirl–one. two, three
above the tin roofs and street cars.

IV
sad and tired, slumped in the corner
sinking under its own weight
the strings bend and warp
red felt pads fall from the hammers
and the piano wilts and cracks.
its notes no longer ring
but lie down to rest
in a gathering heap beneath the bench
a collection of blank scales and gray thirds
with no one to breathe color into their form
the corners of the piano heave in
and its whole mass seems to just settle in to the floor.
a black puddle dotted with floating white keys.

V
anxious and breathing in the energy of the room
dominating the space, waiting. waiting.
green and new like a sapling
bending toward the light of new hands
to play and kindle the keys
every piece waiting to be touched, stroked
quivering as a branch shaken to loosen the fruit
touch it, the thick plums will surely fall
juicy and fat, the purple dye stains bright white keys.

- Rebecca Morse