The piano appeared one day—
an upright instrument laying on its side—
abandoned steel and copper wires,
a felled forest of resonant sounds: spruce, maple, and ash.
No Good Samaritan for this curbside wreck
heavy with broken ribs,
a rusted silver throat open, speechless—
10,000 intricate parts sinking into the cast iron belly.
Passing joggers hurry, quickened by the unheard music.
A parade of dogs lift their legs, saluting
a whole year of jogging and dogs and COVID.
The piano is gone, one day, suddenly
leaving only sunlight and flattened grass
like an impression of music
waiting to be sung.
Cheryl Treiber-Kawaoka lives in Hawaii with her husband Gerald and daughter Grace and their dog, Kukui. Recently retired as an arts educator at University of Hawaii, she has been jogging around the neighborhood in between writing poems and walking the dog. She is very grateful to be able to Zoom with her class From Writing Circles to Poems of Gratitude and Hope.
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