Spring's freshest pink roses clutter the third music room.
The sunset allows a soft yellow light to slip through the wide windows. And he,
he lay on his back, watching the speckled ceiling tiles become the starry sky.
His women are gone. His men are gone.
There is nothing but silence, silence
and the music in his head.
Squints at his baby grand. The only excuse they have to call it a music room, by now.
Silence is a symphony in of itself, yes?
A lack of sound is still referred to as music;
a lack of feeling is still referred to as emotion
And he
Squints at his baby grand.
It seems to him, from disuse or poor air-conditioning both
the ivory keys have a chill to them
equal or greater to a car door's handle
on a brisk winter morning.
Press.
From years of use, his fingertips
feel no indication of the instrument
beneath them;
as if the music flows from his hands alone.
His hands, his mind
a direct link to the world beyond
his humanly charms and swagger-
Forced earnest.
Reasons for playing alone?
No lies without another man's score.
It does not escape the Frenchman,
how his melody so often shifts
to minor-
How often his eyes soak the keys.
Reasons for sobbing alone?
Hypocrisy.
