you weren't brought into this world
with a piano at your fingertips,
you came kicking and screaming,
sobbing as most children do

it was only later
that music picked you up.
i was your other habit,
something you couldn't refute like
a stone or a ghost.
i made sounds but i wasn't beautiful
or blinding, i was stolid,
staunch in the imagination.
i gave you no illusions here.

no use
flailing my arms
like blowup snakes,
but if i became perfectly still
like a flute, firm and resolute,
would you press ear to orifice,
listen for all i have to say

or your mouth to mine,
finger the holes,
contrive,
manipulate