<-- Poetry/Literature Excerpts
Frank Davey: The Piano
I sit on the edge
of the dining room, almost
in the living room where my parents,
my grandmother, & the visitors
sit knee to knee along the chesterfield & in
the easy chairs. The room is full, & my feet
do not touch the floor, barely
reach the rail across the front
of my seat. "Of course
you will want Bobby to play." —words
that jump out from the clatter
of teacups & illnesses. The piano
is huge, unforgettable.
It takes up the whole end wall
of the living room, faces me down
a short corridor of plump
knees, balanced saucers, hitched
trousers. "Well when is
Bob going to play?"
one of them asks. My dad says,
"Come on, boy, they'd like you
to play for them," & clears
a plate of cake
from the piano bench. I walk between
the knees & sit down
where the cake was, switch on
the fluorescent light
above the music. Right at the first notes
the conversation turns to long tales
of weddings, relatives bombed out again
in England, someone's mongoloid
baby & there I am at the piano
with no one listening or even
going to listen
unless I hit sour notes, or stumble
to a false ending.
I finish.
Instantly they are back to me. "What a nice
touch he has," someone interrupts
herself to say.
"It's the hands," says another.
"It's always the hands, you can tell
by the hands," & so I get up
& hide my fists
in my hands.
<-- Poetry/Literature Excerpts