The Pianist

In the faraway fields
down south
– or some place else where the sun sets late and golden –
the pianist plays
a lonesome waltz
on an old wooden upright.
The piano’s out of tune,
and out of place, too,
and so is the man.
A shrinking cig dangles from the man’s lips;
his lids are closed, barely.
His fingers travel lightly,
almost as if they’re lonely.
The tune travels lightly, too,
deceivingly eagerly so,
and longs for a sweetness
that’s long lost
or that never was
in the first place.
The night air carries the lonesome waltz and heavy clouds of smoke out into the distance
into which she walked,
when she walked away,
on that day
way back when.
And so the pianist rearranges
his brokenness
into a song that now you replay
over and over again
because you hear the hope echoed in it
that only dies
at last.