Yesterday, 12:53 PM
On My Desk
There is a single hand
rendered in greys shadowed
to cool aubergine; fingers
lithe, but not without aquiline
intention poised above the keys.
Is it Rachmaninoff or a Bach
fugue in minor C
with hopes of a happy third,
or simply a pause amidst
the drizzle of the snare,
rainy day jazz,
angry with the saxophone
leaving me longing
for the D minor on the down beat?
Each day the hand plays
against a backbeat of silence.
There is a single hand
rendered in greys shadowed
to cool aubergine; fingers
lithe, but not without aquiline
intention poised above the keys.
Is it Rachmaninoff or a Bach
fugue in minor C
with hopes of a happy third,
or simply a pause amidst
the drizzle of the snare,
rainy day jazz,
angry with the saxophone
leaving me longing
for the D minor on the down beat?
Each day the hand plays
against a backbeat of silence.