His touch was heavy.
Not even the simplest of melodies
emerged from his fingers unscathed.
He was the type who,
when failure is the only option,
doubles down on it.
Even for piano lessons
under his instructor’s
near-bursting forehead veins.

There was nothing delicate about him.
He could never have been a bird
though sometimes his hands
flopped on the keys like pigeons
in a vain attempt to connect with middle C.

Of course, it was a blessing
that he was so useless,
saved his parents the expense
of continuing the farce.
Miss Jameson with all
her talk of rhythm and cadence,
harmony and counterpoint,
was paid off like a rich man’s mistress.
He vowed to never look
at sheet music ever again.
And his hands slipped back into his pockets
where they belonged.

No one, from that point on,
ever made the mistake of trying to
teach him beauty
or even the discipline, the persistence,
that brings it into being.
He deferred to the ugly and the easy.
Or just about anything else
he could defer to.

# # #

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, South Carolina Review, Gargoyle and Big Muddy Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Cape Rock and Spoon River Poetry Review.