Musically Useless (For Caldwell)

Musically Useless (For Caldwell) 11th June 2008, 10.27pm)

She turns the radio off
and silence flows around me,
heavy with expectation;

the air is listening,
waiting to be rent,
giving its permission;

from the kitchen
she calls, ‘Get on with it!’,
impatiently chopping
capsicums for chilli,
expecting me to entertain her
until ‘The Archers’ comes on
at five past seven;

I have twenty minutes
that stretch out like
languid cats
basking in sunlight.

I run my fingers up the keys;
I run my eyes over the notes;
I practise a few scales,
Pretend I’m warming up;

‘Play a piece!’
What peace do I get?
You never learnt an instrument,
and I will make up for it.

The notes will not behave,
my fingers crave the reins,
leather and not ivory,
galloping in the rain,
one with the horse and free
graceful and at ease;
I can play that horse’s paces
in ways I will never master keys.

Mozart is turning over;
Beethoven thanks the Lord that he’s still deaf;
Chopsticks isn’t Chinese,
and unless I conquer
Fleur de Lys,
I’m being sent to bed.

Ten years later,
You make me cry
by selling my piano
without asking me.

The lounge stands, silent,
an empty space,
filled with expectation
and air that’s still
listening
and wincing.