after Benjamin Curtaz & Son,
a painting by Joyce Savre

I’m tired now,
a little out of tune.
Still upright, I wait
for fingers to curve
over my keys, voices
to hum melodies.

The fun we’ve had!
The family, my family,
gathered ‘round me—
Joyce’s joints banging
out Christmas carols,
a little ragtime, nursery
jams—maybe Chopin, maybe
Prokofiev. A child bounces
on her lap, another stands
near, grips a corner
of my frame.

Jim strums his guitar, modulates,
harmonizes—tunes to the key
of steadfast, of committed. I like
him there, standing by my side.

Friends from Pittsburgh arrive,
Charlie and his son, Ari. They
sit on my stool, find root chords,
C to D to E to F. Sing,
Once upon a time you dressed so fine,
threw the bums a dime in your prime…

All of us, vagabonds of time,
birthed into a melody that lives
somewhere in memory. My
strings await a final libretto,
vibrate to the tempo of at home.