Walking through the front door, drunk,
and the piano waltzes in the dark
towards me and back.
As today, when she played Monk,
her forearms quivering
over the last chord,
the E way above the root F,
clear, repeated.
We had wine downtown.
Stepping out,
the bagpiper on the corner
played Amazing Grace.
How sweet the sound.
I'm leaning on the piano,
forehead flattened
to the marbled grain.
I once was lost. Now,
outside the bar,
she says through her cigarette,
why do we wait? Time is here,
between our teeth.
And she loved a wretch like me.
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