A ***** yellow tarp
tries to cover up
an old piano,
but the wind
exposes
little ornate roses
that someone left
to mourn
the player
who has
succumbed to death.

The ivory keys
are cracked
and caked
with a thin layer
of dust.

No one has touched
this once treasured
instrument
in over a year.

In silence
the ebony keys
plead
to be played
just one more time.

But no one cares enough
to clean and caress
the keys
with the love
that each of these
things deserve.

No one remains
who ever heard
the elderly lady
finger out
the old gospels
she played for her church

The wooden frame
breaks with the waste,
wanting the compassion
of music,
for someone to use it.

For the soft flesh
of the young grandson’s
bare chest
as he leaned in,
letting it feel
the wonderment
that radiated from him
as he sat in awe
of the majesty of it all.

But the player is dead,
and the little boy has moved on.

He will only recall
the grandeur of it all
in dreams and poetry.