Raindrops upon
the piano. Fingers
running over whites
and blacks. Music
to my mind. Or
does the pianist
prophesy?
Raindrops. I should
have brought an
umbrella. Fingers
over the keys faster.
Water floods the floor.
Rising ever higher.
The pianist, with
fingers rushing over
the keys, tells his story.
Of raindrops. Of
archetypal deluges.
Of fools who tried to
save themselves on
mountaintops.
Raindrops. I should
have saved myself.
I should have built
an ark. Final breaths
are answers to
prophecies: the mind
deceives, the pianist,
only a dream;
The weatherman,
a soothsayer: today
it rains. And downstairs
lover lays needle to vinyl:
Tchaikovsky.
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