The Pianist

Her hands shake. Scarred
Like withered bark of trees.
The veins twist in purple vines
Through knotted knuckles.
Her fingers are stiff and crooked
Like old women in shawls.
Although they still remember
How they used to dance and swing
Up and down the octaves
As she played
Auf Wiedersehen Sweetheart
To the roar of the music hall.
She sits and ponders
On the piano buffet,
Then raises her hands
But her fingers never quite
Touch the keys.