The Piano Storm

I had never been to a piano
recital before. It was as good
an opportunity as any, aside
from the rain which the clouds
spit at us in anger. We half-
ran to the hall, the air chilling
our bodies like refrigerated Jell-O.

The thunder urged us on, a disgruntled
employer in the sky. Then we arrived,
and the hall was grand. The people
were grand. All was wonderful and grand.
We sat quietly. We waited. We anticipated
the program and read while the room buzzed.
Enter the pianist, tight and calculated.

A vase sat at the end, giving us something
to look at. I felt it quite illustrated
the music. Roses and baby’s breath, I shall
never forget the traditional arrangement,
so near the ebony piano. Classic black,
romantic red, tragic white.

Beneath the music was the steady growl
of thunder. When the music lulled,
the thunder soared. When the thunder
roared, the music hushed. And the pianist,
orchestrating all with glances to the ceiling.
I remembered I was out of place in jeans
and greasy hair. I realized I was bored.

The pianist slid his eyes above again.
Under a two layers of piano, the thunder
lowered to a grumble, then only a purr,
then mere breaths. Like a god,
he left between songs; this I did not understand.
After each performance, he stood, buttoned
his jacket, and bowed.

Outside, the rain died away.