The Sunday Poem: The Piano Teacher’s House
The tops of ornamented lintels, carved
With bevels, claw-feet foyer tables caught
In dust: a prelude silk and parquet smooth
Where children march to pianistic doom.
Cliché: the piano almost seems alive,
An ungainly odd-bellied creature, lip
Drawn tight to hide teeth ebony and white.
Lace doilies seem like distraught hair a-flop.
Above, the upper hallway boasts a boa,
A feather flutter nailed to a frame,
A Decca seven eight, velvet ribbons,
The sound of Scaramouche and Lindy Hop.
Pinned to the broken mirror, an autograph
Now faded: Mario Lanza. Perky hats
To wear on bobbed short flapper hair.
A photo torn in half.
With faces veiled, the spare room mannequins
Who turn translucent eyes to see, discuss
The latest news from Paris, the day they earn
Their legs, and when the music sets them free.
2 Responses to “The Sunday Poem: The Piano Teacher’s House”
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Uh, Raph, stop watching old Alfred Hitchcock films on Sundays. How many kids did the piano eat?
(Or maybe it’s just me, spending too much time looking at the MMO industry today.)
Oh, this was WONDERFUL. I used to take piano lessons from a lady with EXACTLY that kind of piano and house — and how did you know about the doilies and the mannequins??? And Mario Lanza! Scary!
Imagine, eight years of piano lessons, and I could never learn to put my hands together sufficiently well. I finally took up the trumpet instead.