I can type in the dark
My fingers have eyes
Thus, I write the way I play the piano—Jazz hands—
Eyes smoked and salty
The Angel’s Snare.
I wink at the stars and at persons who think themselves stellar.
Crickets are my Kin
I love to sit in the dark
When all are asleep
The sky my duvet
I dream of bringing my piano
To the Waterfall—
I want to accompany
The Cricket Chorus—
Does the Mole Cricket ride Moles
My Grand Piano has an
Rickety, a relic
— of my childhood,
when there were just six channels on the telly and the Evening News was broadcast just once, when the only telephone was in my parents’ room, and it was a Big Deal to get a phone call.
Before I got my piano i practiced arpeggios
My hands are as peripheral as my eyes are nearsighted.
I run through the Gardens at night, typing words into the air
It is May and the bluebells are fragrant
I type a poem-song onto a spider web
and spot them—
By Leonora Rita V. Obed