Starbuck—A Revision

Middle of Old Downtown,
boxy streets
moats of cobblestone
only night,
orange lamps.

Behind a warped fence,
taller than me,
not taller than you,
we land on the other side.

Darkness,
piano surrounded
thin white cedars
piano coated in sand,
dropped Spanish moss.

You don’t care,
tap the muted keys
the way you tap the tamper
from espresso

machines, grounds caught
in our fingernails,
earthen scent stuck
to hair. Don’t say it,
wish the piano

will play as loud
as the lines
in your palms,
hauling ghosts

out of abandoned keys,
weight
too much for us…
So many wonders
you’re not born with:

conical burrs for
the best cup of coffee,
a spine, light to find
pianos moaning
names, lost figureheads.

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