Grandad, play Autumn Leaves
No—how about something
I wrote, instead?
Chalky hands,
ones that unscrewed jars
and smashed crabapples
on the neighbor's fence
(when their mutt, let loose
like thunder from the night
clouds, crushed
the fresh marigolds)
those cold sausages
poised above the piano keys
like leaning towers.
And as you began to play
that mangled, serrated song,
a militant jangle of dotted eighths,
jigsaw, skip-fingers, chromatic
climb, your Pharaoh bridged nose
high and edged like the Pyramids themselves,
a white wand, thin, quick
charged with a hollow rage
un-zippered the wallpaper, crisp
and too soon a long curl of smoke,
a gray heap and two stunned heads.
Was it within You
that silvery bolt,
flashing out, thrashing
like dog jaws in the yard?
Or within me
a scream
something I wanted to hear.