Out Of Practice, Out Of Tune, Out Of Love And Out Of Luck… The Musician Poem by John Dempsey

The beautiful woman in her room, she hears him,
coming up the stairs, the slow,
hesitant steps, everything trailing behind him, coattails and all the stuff
of his insides
dragging, and as he grips the knob, comes the click
of a deadbolt.

Turning to the silent audience,

“The melody of the Curdled Milk Maid in A-minor.”

The song
almost heard, the fingers reaching towards piano keys, the notes
come all sour, the still
silent audience…

And getting up from the stool, the musician takes a bow. And then later, alone, pacing
in front of the beautiful woman’s door, he
stares at his hands,
noticing small, orange flakes
of rust.