Beatnikkery

Old poem. Poor David is getting shafted.

"David, this is not my cup of tea," she says,
striking a chord on the piano with her
paper-white, paper-thin fingers. He, David,
is sitting on the floor stark naked.
Thighs sticking to tile with sweat,
balancing bongo drums and an oboe,
it's mid-July and they are making music
in the bathroom. 
 

He looks at the glass perched atop her personal
stack of Debussy, Chopin, Gershwin.
"I've got chamomile and lavender,
if you like, my love."
He pats the bongo, a dull thump against her
melancholy strain of self-expression.
The piano. 
 

"David," and now her voice is low, matching the
intensity of one-thousand cellos pulling along the
same note. It stretches against the acoustic ceiling,
expanding as it rises higher,
more intimidating with each carefully measured
breath. 
 

She plays an F high above middle C, wrapping those
paper-white, paper-thin fingers around the
edges of an octave. All wide muscle and experience,
this hand is a crab scuttling along the ivory keys.
"It's not me, it's you."