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the piano teacher.

a present made of this waiting world
and placed in your disbelieving hands;
assembled
the black pianoforte
your weapon of choice.

discordant still
the powdery old lady struck up her first
remembered assignations
with the ivory gentility
& the metronome
assuredly speculates
on what is & what will never be
and accumulates notes
of a shimmering transient variety
as she reflects on those of
the folding variety
lying dormant in a jar
on the mantelpiece.

and what did your mother tell you ?
she asks pointedly

Mmmmm…….

one ringtone does not a summer make ?

Quite so, my dear.
quite so.