the piano teacher
a present made of this waiting world
and placed in your disbelieving hands;
the black pianoforte
your weapon of choice.
the powdery old lady struck up her first
with the ivory gentility
& the metronome
on what is & what will never be
and accumulates notes
of a shimmering transient variety
as she reflects on those of
the folding variety
lying dormant in a jar
on the mantelpiece.
and what did your mother tell you ?
she asks pointedly
one ringtone does not a summer make ?
Quite so, my dear.