Those hands know more than brains or
hearts
They know things I suspect I never
could
The way the fingers glide over ivory
The knuckles pop staccato, drop-
Those hands know more
Than a piano teacher’s should.
The trained eye sees more in the score
Than my eye ever could
It follows quickly
-crotchet to cleft
But sometimes wanders
-crotch to breast
The eye spies more
Than a piano teacher’s should.
The sounds composed
In that dead room
on that dead floor
Is sometimes more
Than notes and chords
As cotton falls to dark floorboards
And silent screams
Don’t pass the door
Those ears hear more
Than a piano teacher’s should.
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