Alphabet City

I play the theme real slow, straight through,
a series of quarter notes,
crotchets in queue, all in a row,
set ’em up, knock ’em down, repeat.

The piece evolves, arpeggios
cascade, delicate filigree,
ornament already ornate
lattice, lurking at the coda.

Here it comes, ten fingers attack,
thumbs and forefingers like talons,
grab major thirds, tight consonance,
up and down, back up the keyboard.

Twin small children in burlap bags,
moving in tandem across lawns
well-kept, cut to a perfect height,
in the fading light of summer.

I ride the swell past the curtains,
catch a small shimmer of breeze there,
that lifts and lilts like melody,
ancient airs, hummed, not often sung.

The motif ends, slowly concludes,
real slow, like it was at the start,
with one subtle twist, a quaver,
a seventh, for the romantics.

And then a ninth for the holy,
with a suspended fourth, for doubt,
questioning if the end will stick,
if all is as final as that.

The last strains linger a long time,
under my masterful pedal,
pressing hard against harmonies
pinned by hammers on the soundboard.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013