The piano tuner admired the aged ivory of the keys,
the chips off the edges of a few keys
he compared to a grade school smiling for a class photo.
He ran both hands over the oiled tiger-striped oak
stripped and finished by my wife’s grandmother.

Like many old things, he said, the exterior
is in good condition, but the hammers get old,
dry, crack, and the wires, some go taut,
pulled up like a tendon in your ankles
and lose flexibility, some wires
to the low notes go slack, unwinding,
memory loss, muffled, like an old man’s voice
or the sound of a loved one who was lost.

I would not repair it, he said.
It has too much value as is.


© by Jeff Burt.
Used with the author's permission.