The piano player
has already been shot.
He is no longer a musician,
less one that sold-out halls.
Once he turned the river’s chant
into a jazz so fine that fish weeped.
Now, he plays only
right-handed counterpoint.
His left is still paralyzed,
even after a year of PT.
He only knows Bach,
the old bebop has faded.
His laugh,
a faint rhythmic sigh
is the only time
he knows how to keep.
He grows frustrated
when a two-handed Schubert
plays on the classic radio station.
He was acclaimed
for the way his music
triumphed over time and adversity:
the weakness of an inferior piano,
his own chronic fatigue, his very pain.
He would admonish those
who broke his concentration
with chronic picture taking
and excessive coughing.
He grunted whenever
he heard his imitators
in the elegies of Muzak
floating from the big mall speakers.
Now, his drummer and bassist
have died. He is alone.
His past brilliance is a cosmic taunt.
He realizes that he never
could have done any of this
without them
by his side,
keeping his time
The small, sleeping audience
of the nursing home
of which he is a resident
is not convinced of his genius.
He is no longer convinced of it.
He plays jazz in his dreams.
It’s as messed up as his left hand,
messed up as his waking life.
