To the Lady Playing Piano Above my Head

It is 23:40
my first alarm goes off at five
I ought to be angry with the
lady – and I just know it’s a lady,
those tones are too dulcet to
not be pressed upon by small
womanly hands, long fingers
do not deliberate over
every key
I ought to be angry. Hey neighbour!
it’s almost midnight and we are already
in the middle of a revolution
I don’t need your noise
seeping through the reed-thin floors
softly, almost imperceptibly
haemorraging into
my night-timely unsleeping

she has played this piano ever since
I moved in here, over a year ago
carols at Christmas and strains
I recognise from TV. Up there,
she is dressed in black or maybe
floral smock push-pressed over an expanding Chinese belly
maybe these ongoing settlements have unsettled her, the way they have made me uneasy
she plays because she cannot sleep;
maybe there is a lover, a rich man
poor man
beggarman, thief who chastises and lies cramped on clean and off-white sheets, alone as she
practises her black and ivories

and I am underneath,
swilling tepid milk and knowing that
because of my naps and my injured knee
I too will not be sleeping soon
merely sitting here until today peels
sleepily, dreamily
into tomorrow and we will share
another aching night, like this.

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About fiercemissc

Twenty-something Geordie girl living and working in Hong Kong. Young, free and single and making the most of it.
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