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Play It Again



when Sam plays the piano, it laughs
the white ivories of the instrument gather together
and giggle in a chorus
the plink plink of the keys shimmer
like the star you can see only from the corner of your eye:
when you try to focus on it, it vanishes
when Sam plays the piano, he is
a machine made of octaves and six-eight time,
diminished and augmented chords of all varieties.
Sam doesnít play jazz:
he is jazz.
when Sam plays the piano, people stop,
eyes wide and starry,
to hear his fingers create a scene
as clear as paint on canvas.
when Sam plays the piano, he coaxes
the music from inside it,
he caresses the polished wood
with a touch as gentle as a loverís

I am jealous
of Samís piano

-MWE
15 July 2001