Should Have, Would Have, Could Have

won’t it be worse on

the first of October,

 

when the sun that I packed,

assembled in crimson

thread

 

can’t burn past 7:30 

or so

 

won’t it be worse when

I start to remember

 

the way I mumbled “thank you,”

when there should have been

silence, my shadow

in your basement

bleeding westward

 

it should have, would have,

could have

 

(been worse back then,

I mean)

 

and the clouds that I stitched

to my jackets, the deep wool,

won’t they tumble over

with such worse-ness

 

I ask because the music

is slow 

 

no longer

eyes are closed

lips are parted

ears are listening

fingers are tapping

notes are floating by

the room is no longer empty

silence no longer speaks

piano keys sing their pitch

sheets of black and white

are shuffled along a stand

pent up sigh released at last

fingertips kiss the ivory

and black

no longer

am I empty

(you play your piano in the hours of an autumn storm)

leaves in a heavy wind

strong piano chords

even seated at the bench

your feet are sinking in their

amounting decay;

someone left the door open,

using up the vacancies

between minor and flat

(you could play just as well

with your hands in your lap).