And later on, returning home
after another of our walks,

re-defining myself
with a turn of a key –

someone who’s forever
framed in a doorway, forever

re-locating himself behind a door –
what if, removing the dog’s lead,

I hear someone playing a piano,
am I somewhere someone else,

patron or king in salon or court,
or just myself, slipping out of time?

I listen: the dead pianist, back turned,
is pouring out, drawing out,

the way they do in middle movements,
modulating so many forms of pain.

The andante ends with a click,
silent as a scythe.

I turn cassettes and continue copying,
tape A onto tape B, allegro ma non troppo.

I see one of me settling into a chair,
improvising, copy upon copy.



© Nemo 2023
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critique and comments welcome.
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Really like this one Gerald, had to read it several times to get to grips with it, that’s my problem not your’s or your words. Thanks for posting ..


Interesting concept here Gerald, I really enjoy poetry when it explores a simple concept like this and cross compares against the human condition, this is really well done. Best Keith

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