My fingers glide over the keys
like somebody slipping into a silk nightgown,
The accents are of popping corn
and the scales are oily like french fries.

My body surges with intensity
because music has the tendency to
move me.
I sway back and forth
like a weak palm tree
on a gusty Florida beach.

Glassy and sparkling with passion,
my eyes devour the pages of
speckled black and white
desperately hoping that
whoever hears my playing
will feel the same pleasure I feel.