Piano Player Poem by Marlee Usher

It's old, this place
high ceiling
white walls
solid wooden floors
benches still
shine in dull chestnut
at dawn and midday
the sunlight
streams
past the painted mirrors
and reflects the colors
onto these
white walls

There are stairs
in this place
up, up the stairs
turning now
to the old door
with the bronze handle
open
walk across the balcony
dust rises softly
which each step
inturuppting its slumber
only to float back down
there, lies the bench
there is no dust here
there are no crackes

I sit
my fingers brush
the ebony and ivory
each soft note
echos in this place
my hand is drawn
again
into place by sorrow
by want
need
i close my eyes
and fill this place
with time