v. fortepiano

amira comes and brings me

a cup of tea. careful, it’s

hot, she warns. i am sitting

at the upright by the window, fingers

splayed over silent keys,

skimming the abomination

of a music score with

dry eyes. i take a half-hearted

sip and frown—it’s not

hot enough, and when i

tell her she rolls her

eyes and says what

a weirdo i am.

she leaves to make

more tea

and i am left cold in front

of the piano.

a dirge drawls in the

distance; another stranger

must’ve left this stale

coastal town. another

funeral, another procession.

some days i think i am

waiting for my own.

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