Charlie Clark
Fine. Not scales, just "Chopsticks"
and some idle, off-time tinkering.
He knows he has no talent for it.
Such fat fingers at the tips, like two packs
of sodden cigar stubs, and hardly more dexterous.
He chews at them and spins records of Chopin
in the evenings because it seems like a good idea
when the name Chopin occurs to him.
But he's yet to find a performance
where the player’s touch isn’t too brusque
or on the nose; he thinks the hands
should hardly leave a trace upon the keys,
notes loll instead mid-air like ghosts
unsteady still in their new skin.