It's a Song
like the trip of my
fingertips on the (black-and-white)
Keys of an old wooden
piano, too tired to stay
in tune
(but still happy to 'do-mi-so'
along, as I squint at yellowed sheets
of familiar music).
The Piano bench creaks with
the sigh of a flat note's drone
which warms the room, like
buttermilk at sunrise.
(c)krp
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