Everybody knows somebody
who owns a piano.
Grand, upright, baby, mini,
sleek and shiny, warm and wooden.
My piano teacher had
a black Yamaha. Small
enough for her cozy living room.
Big enough for me to fill with rondeaus and minuets.
The keys felt clean
like they had be swiped
with a disinfectant wipe.
Or a tissue.
Or maybe they were slippery from
dozens of fingertips sliding across
them all day, everyday. My
pinky would slip off the D# key.
My teacher told me how when she learned
herself, her teacher would balance
a dime
on the back of her hand as she played.
“The curve of your fingers makes
the back of the hand flat.
That’s the proper posture for playing,”
she says.
Her teacher would slap
the back of her hand
if it wasn’t curved enough.
She didn’t to me though. I always curved my hand.
Everybody knows somebody
who owns a piano. So
I see them everywhere.
It’s been 4 years since I played.
I can still feel the curve in my hand.
Emmett MacMillen 