You become accustomed to this,
this falling down sound,
this deathly, stately, crashing sound.

These days,
you are a piano hauling itself up
flights of stairs,
blocking fire escapes,
leaving sweaty shoulder prints on walls,
scraping your polished corners
and wheezing your way up towards
the topmost floor and
a room whose door you wouldn’t
fit through,
even if you made it.

When you finally slip
and play a doomsday sonata
all 30 stories down,
you are fucking angelic!

you never sound as good
as when you finally hit the ground.

You get used to this sound.

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