Grand

It sits as though abandoned
this mourning-dove gray house
that mirrors the weather this day.
Too close to the neighbors,
too look-alike,
too much blending in
with all the others,
no sparkling
personality,
uniqueness,
charm
or character
sets it apart.

An unattractive
screen door
bars entering
the house with
ease–its spring
wound too tight,
it demands
a firm grip
while opening
so as not to slam
into you as you attempt
a quickened leap
before it hits your heels.

Cheap, green indoor-outdoor
carpeting greets your feet
(and assaults your sensibilities)
and leads you to the prosaic,
commonplace front door.
Inside, builder’s drab beige
monopolizes every square inch.
No optimistic hues provide
a joyful skip of the heart
or a pleased, inward smile
of satisfaction.

No lively art that’s been
lovingly and joyfully collected
hangs upon the dreary, sad walls.
Oh, there’s a print here or there
but they too exhibit
taupe,
blandness,
lack of bold,
indicating
a drought
of interest
in adding
a bit of oneself
into this
abode of deficiency.

A pianist lives here.
The love of the classics
muses round her thoughts
and emerges with enthusiasm
and light through her deft fingers.
Though she be aged and becoming
forgetful, the music that she has
studied since childhood
livens her soul and the notes
take flight about the room
and fill every corner
with her verve and brightness.

Her interest lies not in the outward
appearance of where she kicks off
her shoes at the end of the day or
where she lays her head at night,
but instead she flourishes on the
vivid, vibrant strokes of color
that come from that piano grand.

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