The Piano

A sore wooden throat,
this poor old piano.
Out of tune,
old and unplayed.
Hiding away under piles of yellow books,
and dust,
dripped wax.

Perhaps one day a tuner might come.
Perhaps, it thinks, through that window,
perhaps, one day, in the salmon sun,
a child might come and I'll sing and play.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.