I gravitate to the front room of my house;
Sitting underneath a painting of a boathouse
On a rickety old wooden bench
Probably made by the French.
The cover opens, displaying the glamour;
My heart pounds with enamor.
The stark-white keys glitter;
Now is not the time for quitters.
I press down until I hear a sound,
Softly, then louder I go around and around.
Suddenly, something sounds odd–
Something inside me, screams I'm a fraud.