My Ungrand Piano and I

I haven't touched it for years:
Like a contemptuous spouse,
It sulks in a corner and gathers dust.
Its main function these days
Is support for some house plants,
A broken metronome, and
A decorative glass funnel.
This spinet has a maple sugar finish
Speckled with snowflecks, just like its owner.
Piano and person are aging in parallel--
Together we compound our uselessness
With every passing decade.
My instrument cannot raise objections
Nor plead for a merciful relocation.
Not even a conversation piece,
It resonates with silence,
The prevailing form of music here
In the cave of forgotten ambitions.