by Mark Bonica
You’ve had a day like this,
and so you know what I mean
when I say that
I wish I had a piano.
I wish I could pull the little stool out
and settle in, savor
that moment as my hands hang
over the keys — just before notes arise
to do my bidding
like 88 genies unleashed from ivory bottles.
I wouldn’t wish for anything more
than well-made scales and
Okay — I’m lying —
I’d love something baroque
to lift me — and my piano —
up like a magic carpet
high above the suburban sprawl,
and daytime talk show hosts.
Somewhere up there among the stars
I’d play the accompaniment
to Holst’s Planets,
and dispute Copernicus’ findings
about the revolution of the Earth.
Soon the entire cosmos
would align itself around
correcting the error
of its previously incomprehensible ways.
Copyright © 2008 by Mark Bonica