High and playing off a plastic keyboard piano
London, England-fingers flying,
I am living vicariously off of
This delicate, strong blond performer.
My own fingers are perpetually cold here.
Chords are dancing by like horses
Pulling a carriage
19th century style
Trotting along, carrying the post.
The sun sets early
On the British empire
The car headlights speed by
Sixteen’o’clock,
Dragging by the last smells of summer,
Lying damp and tired
In the piles of leaves on every corner.
The swampish smell of indoors
A muddy sauna
Evaporates in the air.
I could go for a plate of something.
Maybe a hot glass of something or other.
My cheeks feel red and smooth with cold.
It won’t be Christmas for-
It’s thanksgiving-
And won’t be Christmas for weeks.
And yet I feel like
At any moment
I could be curled up back to a warm fire.
This piano sounds
Like electronic heaven.
My heels are warm beneath my legs.
I might be feeling something
For the first time in weeks.
With no dinner, and no drink, and no
Laying-of-the head down.
And I feel like I should preserve the time.
No comments:
Post a Comment