In this room,
a quiet room,
my dear friend
plays the piano
(he sighs into the ivory keys;
his fingers urgently pushing them
to their limits.)
                                  &
tunes his voice.
             (“I’m gonna make a lot
              of weird noises,” he says,
      aahhh,
        aahhahaaahh
                       ­ &trills.;
              Up to the ceiling, his voice goes.)

He pushes&pushes;&pushes;
his voice,
echoes&echoes;,
his eyes,
              closed.

A smile
peeks out through the syllables caught in his cheeks
while his feet aimlessly step upon those three little pedals,
as if he’d just been doing
the daily commute to and from work.

I sit on the floor,
a floor dusted with the footsteps of ***** shoes and
the result of lonely instruments.

I listen.

After he reaches that high C,
I look up at him and smile
and he looks down and smiles
and for a moment,
all of the pains I had
before I knocked on his door
dissipate into the air,
as beauty radiates in the room
in the form of eighth & quarter notes,
Italian & French,
aaahs & the silence of
            peace.