Toccata

Everything about this grayscale piano --
from its keys like uneven teeth,
in need of more than brushing
to remove the dust and decay
that years of mistreatment
and neglect have caused --
to the space it occupies,
all bricks and mortar, rough-hewn,
cold and under-used,
bespeak a painful loss.

No music warms the cold places
in that stony room.
No sharps and flats swell round
the empty spaces,
nor wisps of airy tunes
disturb the curled leaves
of the abandoned sheets.
A paradox on legs,
the ancient instrument seems
a statement of fragility and force.

Fortissimo, pianissimo...
no sounds at all
defy the rigid quiet,
or mar the weathered stillness
of this antique...
disregarded, disrespected,
a hushed requiem for a life
lived far too long,
or else too soon discarded...
its death an unvoiced crescendo.