Each note, deftly executed by fingers
which depress just the right key, with
just the right force, playing works penned
long, long ago by composers, who live on
through each intricate masterpiece, evoking
a sense of nostalgia for misty days, walking
through alleyways of the University District,
espresso and brioche on my table, as I overhear
conversations of those nearby, while thinking of
your last phone call, asking if we might get together,
and then you, phoning back just minutes later and telling me that
maybe it was a bad idea after all, that you shouldn't
have asked to meet me, and how sorry you were.
Somehow, the cello accompanied by a pianist,
playing Francis Poulenc comforts me in an inexplicable
way, and I resolve to move on, and vow to never
be at your mercy again.
-C.A. McCoy
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