the piano I played was stained on middle C,
from whatever artificially red, syrupy treat
I used to like
that had been stuck to my fingers.
I hated it, back then--
never had the attention span
to willingly memorize the names of
fifty
thousand
different
notes.
Still, I plinked out what my small hands could learn.
These days,
I have a new piano.
Not marked on middle C anymore.
I can't play much anymore,
even though my hands can reach the octave now,
if I stretch.
Still, I hold down the damper and una corda
and vainly let what I remember move around
me,
vaguely like a whale song
far, far under water.