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.