Guzlowski-Stepek: The Never-ending Poem

a canny play the piany a've goat nae feet fur the pedals an ma hauns are wrinklt an seized up wi arthritis so a canny play nuthin still a kin hear the music an the music is as sweet as ma hauns are sair if music be the food ae love then gie it laldy

In the living room  a piano sits like  some lost soul  waiting for illumination  or motion or a simple hand  ready to move along the keys  that will unlock its life  and play the music  waiting like spring inside it.   I’m not the one who can do that.   My fingers are knots that only know  how to tremble and scratch  and point to something  that needs to be lifted  by someone younger  and stronger than me. If I were looking for metaphors,  I would say the waiting piano  is just someone like me,  but I’m not looking for metaphors.