Rescuing the Upright
The piano had been sitting in an empty farmhouse for weeks.
Snow had fallen deep for Missouri, leveling the ditches
up to the hedgerows. More was expected.
She seemed eager to leave, if that was possible,
abandoned to the cold, the dark rooms, the half-closed doors,
a lonely girl at a school dance. The floor groaned
as we rolled her across the hardwood, jockeying her
through the door, onto the front porch, and then lifting
one end, and then the second into the truck bed. Martin sat
on the wheel well and banged out a few chords of Scott Joplin,
all he knew, a single ragtime across the frozen pasture. A turkey vulture
circled Center Creek. Juncos scattered rosehips in the thorns.
We rolled cigarettes and smoked until the cab fogged.
There was rescue in the new snow, a victory with
Martin in the truck bed tapping the ivory, a Bugler in his hand.
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