home black bar




“The piano is not in the right place.”
Overheard at a recital

The piano sank
into the grave
of my mother,
whom the keys miss.

The piano is inside the ripest berry,
the sounds of black and white
swelling to red.

The piano has entered the sun
for re-charging.

The piano rose tonight
into the constellation Piano.

The piano has gone to the bank
to deposit its history of notes.

The piano now lives atop
a tall pillar in the desert
with St. Simeon and the Stylites.
Pilgrims wonder at
the black hulk against the sky.

The piano is nesting
in someone’s thick, long hair,
hatching the eros of ivory.

The piano is always in the right place.

--Philip Dacey


skidrow penthouse
    All content copyright © 2017 Skidrow Penthouse