My Father's Last Symphony

my father had an old piano made of oak
that he’d pile various things on top of.
the surface was golden lacquered,
soft, and obsessively polished.

there was a brass lamp and a bench
where old music sheets were stored;
the keys traditional black and white,
except for the nicotine stains from the
many times he’d smoke while
banging the keys, writing notes, erasing them,
trying to make them into something
more than snuffed cigarette butts,
and an over-flowing ash tray.
I never actually saw him play.

when I was twelve he told me the tragedy of Beethoven,
how he sawed off the legs of his piano,
banged on the keys, ear pressed against the floor
to try and get the music out of his head.
I never actually saw him play, either.

the first song I ever played was one of Beethoven’s.
my father taught me and I practiced every day,
trying to get the notes just right, banging them,
erasing them until my father asked me to stop.

eventually he quit smoking
and I quit playing
but I still buried him;
like a thousand used cigarettes
like a thousand notes under his bench
like a thousand deaf symphonies.