Closed door:
A shield from other eyes and ears.

Soles clink as a girl makes her way across the room
then a screech as the bench scratches the floor
then she sits. Slides in.

Straight back. Posture. Arms hover over the keyboard
and lower,
relaxedly.

Fingers scale over dark hills and through ivory valleys,
creeping and crossing in a strict structure
drilled in by pedagogues
and imprinted through hours of practice.

Following the scales was a turn of the head, towards the door and the rest of the room.
One pair of eyes.
One pair of ears.
Both hers.

Then she unleashes the tempest.

Fingers race across black ridges
and strike white keys...

She didn't choose to be the accompanist.
Hands hammer the piano in an unsteady rhythm.
Confusion trips already trembling fingertips.
The choir goes silent.
"It's the piano."
Then the song drowns in a chorus of sneers.

Full throttle on the pedal.
She shouts, not with her mouth...

She dares to play a newly learned piece
to entertain relatives during their visit
and prove private lessons were worth it.
The risk does not pay off. The consequence:
A clandestine tongue-lashing from an ashamed mother.

The strings keep ringing, ringing with passion...

"Bravo!" "Amazing!" "You're so talented!"
they say to one much better and younger
Never to her.
Who would?

Chords roll across octaves
as melodies surf over them, lighter and brighter.
Sound shows sentiments once obscure.
A bittersweet song soothes an audience:
herself.

A fingertip slips. A stray note hangs in the air.

She doesn't care.