I would give and arm and a leg
To play the piano for you again.
You would lie back on the sofa
And my little fingers would pick out the tune.
Alas my fingers are now too soft
The notes just squiggly shapes
Music beaten out of my life
By choice, or was it compulsion?
They say I am tone deaf, I have no ear
For music. Yet what is the sound
That echoes as the lilting notes of Bolero
Crescendos around my head?
If I could, I would play, I would play
Some Tchaikovsky, maybe Barcarolle
I would sell my soul for one last chance
To have you watch as I rehash those tunes
But my fingers are silent now
The piano long removed
From that room where we once held fort
Our music echoing in its womb.