years, lessons have rendered fingers
depressed enough to overrun the keyboard
with scratches. Every night I slither into
my imitation McCrystle gown. Dark with wine,
I bang wood with the enthusiasm
of a 60-year-old hooker. Sonata aficionados,
the ceramic vases on the piano totter
a tap dance towards infernal floor. Cymbals!
If you've any comments on
this poem, Arlene
Ang would be pleased
to hear from you.