You flex your fingers,

                       fit them with mine

                       —mine, sharp & flat;

         yours, natural.
You’re a natural,

                       your fingers at ease

                                               when they glide

                                                                           across the keys,

                                                                                                your back hunched

                                                                                                                     to reach the melody.
                                               But sometimes, you hit the chords

         too hard,

                                                            your song reverberates

         through the house, wakes me

                                                                           from my sonata dream. Sometimes,

                                                            piano man,

                                                                           you play my clavicle

                                                                                                                                  into ivory dust.
                                     Play Tchaikovsky, I say. Play

                                               Bach,

                                                  Mozart,

                                                        Brahms,

                                                               Haydn,

                                                                   Debussy.
                                                                                                    Please, play anyone

                                  but me.