It is an old room in an old building
Paint peeling off its walls
Like some giant scaly snakeskin –
The old sandpapered whitewash beneath
Looks ripe and untouched –
A wrinkly newborn untouched.
Little coffee-stained ply board tables for two
Scattered in a seemingly random nonsense
Across the red-cemented floor –
And in the middle of it all –
The dull dusty grand – its broken keys
Juggled in a line of steps – arranged
As an obstacle course for the most daring of pianists –
Waiting for a long-awaited touch –
Any touch – to hear its voice again.
It hasn’t heard its own voice in ages.
It doesn’t know what it will sound like –
Silent, croaky, off or miraculously on,
Muffled, mournful… it forgets.
Like people forget, the colour of their skin,
The colour of their souls –
How their fingers used to move
Across shiny black and white keys
In bright stage light. They will heal each other now –
The little bent woman standing
Against the frame of the old doorway –
And the piano, its tight strings
Tingling with apprehension under its dusty cover.
Between skin and wood, between wait and touch
While the old strings find life – and old fingers meaning
Or the other way around – what’s the difference?
It is an old room in an old building – and it’s singing.
