By: Alex Lobera

The lid and prop, detached, lie nearby:
abandoned sword and shield of a once-proud warrior of song.
The former-grand now lies on its side, exposed,
its case open, frame and strings,
the innards of one more dead,
spilt from a coffin no longer self-contained.

Intruding on the piano’s soundless shame
stands an open window, obscene.
Mute scream of strings, by hammers never hit again.

Bad enough to rot alone.
But forever to be spent
rotting, not doing that for which you’re meant,
is even worse if rotting’s done
for all the world to see.

Strategically missing keys strand by their absence those that remain,
quarantined for as long as wood decays
into factions, silenced choruses:
mutiny in silence to the piano’s end of days.