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

You stopped.

 

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

 

Broke you.