A children’s
recital.
Taking turns at
the piano.
A matronly
instructor standing over each child.
A thin milling of
parents half-seated in the front room
of a modest house.
With a doorbell
that lights up after dark.
Listening
half-attentively while the children
strike each note
in noticeable fear.
A table of cookies
and refreshments just feet away.
A tower of
overturned plastic cups awaiting false thirst.
The hands need
something to do when they are not clapping.
Then it is home to
bed.
A school night for
each of our dear little Mozarts.
The matron
instructor closing the lid on her piano.
Cleaning up
bunched napkins of cookie crumbs
and partially filled cups.
There will be no
more music.
A sudden creaking
of stairs under the weight.
***
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
ryanquinnflanagan.yolasite.com
