Like invisible hands
on a player piano,
never missing a note,
your dancing fingers
play my body.

Sometimes rinky-tink
or ragtime,
faster and faster,
sometimes a concerto,
andante, andante.

The sounds that I make
when you stroke me like that
are like the crooning of keys
worn smooth by the love
of the piano man’s touch.

Slippery and warm with vibration,
each key kisses your hand
as it slowly slides by,
caressing, releasing hidden melodies,
each note a whispered response.

Black keys amid ivory,
your tangled hair on my breast;
a bravisimo performance.
You languish now from your efforts;
turn out the lights;
let the curtain come down.

— Elaine Pedersen ©


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