Thirty years have come and gone, since I graced the door,
Of small white house, just south of town, a mile or so or more,
I parked my car by once red barn, swallows in the eaves,
Walked up to the latticed porch, on path through fallen leaves.
Through unlocked door, I entered in, and stood in entry hall,
A braided rug, threadbare and worn, lone picture on the wall,
Was as if I'd never left, this house I'd grown to hate,
Each Saturday, at three o'clock, you'd best be never late.
I went into the music room, to gaze at her piano,
It seemed so small, keys black and white, damned creature of my sorrow,
Beside there sat, small rocking chair, white doily on the back,
Yellowed by the sands of time, still covered weathered crack.
I smelled the smell, remembered well, was clearly not the dust,
It was the smell of lived forever, the scent of old maid's must,
With one last gaze, I looked around, the small and tidy room,
Standing there in contemplation, in silence of a tomb.
Was time to go, I'd best be off, the funeral would be soon,
I'd told them all, that I'd be back, well before high noon,
I stopped a second at the door, as if I hoped to hear,
The tinkling of the ivory keys, the scales I'd grown to fear.
I never played piano well, I still don't to this day,
The only sound, a creaking door, as slowly walked away.
[This message has been edited by Mike (edited 03-06-2000).]