A Minor

Not really ugly, just in love
with singing the angry, hanging
songs, letting everyone down,
too sweet on those black keys, shooing
that song into a hairbrush microphone
with pouty lips, tar notes
sticking in the throat.

Starting a fuss,
holding it all against him.
The feeling is a cold minor note
against the back. It feels just
like velvet would sound.

He’s too confused to be mean,
never really thinking about
the careening arpeggio hands,
he should be breaking.

Been singing too low, lately.
Just the weight of asking for
a tenor strains the arms.

Remind him any melody
can be played by ear.
It comes out hurtful, something
mutually recognized as patronizing.

He calls down the hall
and his loneliness coats the piano
with dust, the world’s powder along
all ten fingers, the knowing little
boat of a voice floating over the keys
that belittle him.