Piano / by Academy Monthly

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.