How She Left

    Her hands play on her precious ivory,
    The song, familiar from her daily grind
    Upon those keys, familiar a last time,
    Their farewell in a tongue unknown to me.
    When she is gone the Steinway will not grieve.
    I listen from my room alone and blind
    To fingers caressing sounds they combine
    To serenade this hour before she leaves.

    We shared a few quick words as she put cases
    Into the car (our thoughtless parting scene).
    Slowly, I felt her absence over weeks
    Of creaks and other callous sounds of place–
    Late feelings to our farewell. Her serene
    Sonatas spawned jealousy I don’t speak.


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