Poaching the Ivories

his song ends and engraved

scarlet ink into the parchment.

I know no music without you,

bled through each crevice. he clasped

it closed by a stamp and laid it to rest on the lid of an asthenic piano. the pianist

commenced his swan song. sustain

pedal pressed down, firm to the floor,

unleashing a lingering sound

of a slow, remembered duet. evermore

vacant piano bench roared

with melodies. the piano extinguished

silence as the fractured notes deafened.

piano strings hum a fragmented song

with hopes to forget the liberated music,

filled with distraught, age-old rage that

once softened the worldly noise.

raining notedrops wash over a score

of a processional song. artistry drips out

of the pianist’s wrinkly, withered,

and calloused hands. tools of golden

glory and grandeur grant life-provoking

thoughts. only leaving

the elder to ponder his loss.

tension births frayed, prized—

jaded strings,

retrogressing from the era of

cornerstone dependence.

the coils snap

under pressure, ensuing in a final coda.

the pianist soaked in the silence. the elder

ripped open the lid and

extracted the strings. bound

and tied them together, chording

a noose. the piano bench bore

his weight one departing time.

His song ends.