The Futility of Solitude

~The Futility of Solitude~

A retired piano,
left to November,
its keys exposed to downpours,
makes music that a bird,
dry in the crook
of a nearby tree
finds questionable,

but the bird's interest is tweaked,
as a new chord gives rise 

to a rare note heard by no one,
because there's nothing but a piano
and its soaked dream of a song 

within earshot,

as the rain plinks on. 

D. B. Tompsett

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