Für - broken – Elise
Inviting ivory whites.
Resting flat and sharp-edged between the black.
In the concert’s hall:
Bach? Debussy? Satie?
Your desires and melodies a mystery to me.
But you played – this I do know, though
Strayed away from the keys,
Career more a boon to Baby Boomer demands.
For a woman? You could choose:
A nurse, a care worker – a mother.
All of the above.
And with graft and toil,
One day a manager – more demands,
Of people, of homes – more distance sustaining Bösendorfer melancholy.
You never spoke of this past,
It is only now, by speculating, I ask:
Why, with your daily bottle of red wine,
Glass sat piano-side,
All that could be relived of nascent nostalgia was
A minor love-note embedded by
Beethoven, for his Elise.
Played by you, our lonely piano out-of-tune,
Für Elise – broken,
Fractured and stuttered by the alcohol, expectation, and circumstance that