72 Inches

Under the hood I ran, fevered from feet pressing on levers that soothed with their apparent malleability—what with the heart of them, the root of them, the mechanics of them only guessed at by those perceptive enough to have any guesses left at all.

     There are doubters, sure.  Those that believe that what you see is what you get. Bland folks, puny folks, folks who have failed to ever lift the lid of a piano to look underneath. Those with too little imagination or too much self-regard to wonder what makes a thing run, to wonder what those velvet-lined sticks strike against upon violation.

      You do not know about velvet lined sticks. You do not know they know no touch of flesh upon their ebony, their ivory. You are unaware of a lack of direct pounding upon their leverage, the dearth of tickling or trilling or scaling along their lengths. There is nothing to tell out of that lemon-pinched mouth, nothing to offer or proffer or consider or confide.

     (And if 6 was 9, if truth was marched down roads not yet travelled but claimed, well, the 9 would not panic or solicit approval —it would turn calmly away from itself, again, absorbing the anxious ministrations of the slickly dishonest. And one would sense, in that 9, the silence of a neglect predicated on perceived lack of need, on the loneliness of a wheel so disconnected it can no longer fathom the concept of grease.)

     “Not yet” means never, and can therefore be contained by denial and milked for comfort through Time—that fickle whore running us off the present to catapult us fore or behind but never deeper into the here and now.

     So the day died under hands grasping at the future because it’s easier to lionize what is not now before us than to master what is.

     So I let that day die.

     Then threw what was left of us in behind it.

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