No One Wants Them
It stood in the half-emptied parlor
heavy-footed, seven hundred pounds,
old dark body streaked where claws
had sharpened against its side. Dust
wheeled in a downdraft, the auctioneer
was saying he couldn’t give it away,
No one wants them, filling his van
with cracked things. Hard to get any
value out of this house as he slid brass
bedrails behind a slotted plate stand. I
kept my mouth shut: he couldn’t give a shit
for the speech of angels. All it needed
was new felt for the hammers. Someone,
a kid, could learn on it, or the nursing home
Tall Pines. I cleaned ivory keys, offered free
delivery. The born-again teacher wanted it
for her son, whey-faced and mute in his
father’s grasp while she tried some chords.
We’re sorry. The tuner put on his black
cap after five minutes: the keys were plastic,
tuning could snap old wires, etcetera.
I made the phone call then, and a kind man
came with his rope and harness. I paid him
to take it in his truck to sink to earth
in the Camden dump. That was August:
it will rot in winter.