The 1947 Baldwin Acrosonic

I don’t play the piano.

Yes, I do have one.
It came with the house
and has sat,
gathering grime
next to the philodendron.
I adorned it with pictures,
fresh lilies,
a lamp - 
but I never bothered to open the lid.

I don’t play the piano;
I don’t have the talent.
I thought I might sell it,
but it seemed too worn to be worth much,
and it didn’t want to be moved.

I’ve never played the piano.
I know that I’ve told you,
but you must understand
how important this is.
I have fumbling fingers
and no sense of rhythm.
I’m not a musician
by any stretch of the word.

I don’t know why
I finally decided to sit at the bench.
I don’t know why
my fingers knew how to move like that
how to make it sound like that,
like I’d practiced a thousand times,
perfect,
            melodious,
                         beautiful and passionate and tender and familiar and-

I never thought the keys looked like teeth.
I would ask where it got the ivory,
but the philodendron is dead
and I’m not sure I want an answer.

Please.
Just take the piano.
No money,
no payment,
I just want it gone.

I don’t know what song it was,
but I can’t get it out of my head.