Her hands are neither soft
nor attractive.
They are a white fish belly from too
little time in the sun.
Her nails are stubby and unadorned.
Her fingers are tentacles projecting
unnaturally from undersized palms,
tips rough and calloused.

I must stare
I cannot help myself

Then it begins.
The movement.
The tentacles scamper here and there.
They reach
They touch
They pound and poke
and stretch and crawl
and in their grotesque fury
teach me to love.

Mozart and Chopin
Prokofiev and Bach

The piano is a time machine
transforming the tiny practice room
into the mighty concert halls
of Vienna and Prague.

From the gallery I am
entranced by rhapsodies
seduced by nocturnes
and consumed by symphonies.

I murmur,
does the music stir your soul?

She glances up
briefly
and returns to work.