Mute Mutant

In the early morning dimness, the grand piano sits, 
silent.
Once the entire instrument vibrated, floor echoed, 
walls applauded. 
The molecules of fingers and keys mingled. 
Music of deceased composers was resurrected, 
exploding into life, colouring the air, 
setting the atmosphere afire—
passionate defiance against the abyss.  

Now, a piece of furniture, wall-placed to camouflage
the side denuded during leaky storage, 
Yellowed ivory and dusty black— immobile, it plays 
the role of a musical instrument.

Books piled on a decorative cloth hide the mark 
where a plant bled onto it.
The pianissimo pedal apparatus—
 gone since the elderly tuner took it to find a match—
Perhaps the tuner is, also, gone—
No need to hurry to soften silence.

At times, a cat invades to pluck a wire in feline key. 
The sounding-board, cracked in one of many moves, 
at times, mimics certain household noises—
hollow duplicates of daily living. 

The piano sits, diminished, soundlessly accusing,
the ghost of music past.

© Patricia Anne Elford