The Bench

My piano:

I remember the little girl who sat there,

bench cranked up all the way, her feet

dangling above the ground.

She would roll her eyes,

lay across the bench and imitate those

cool teenagers on the bus.

Now the keys have acquired some dust,

out of tune, pedals sticking,

books covering the top. There's nothing

special about it; just an upright.

She's gone now, forever: that little girl

has been replaced by one of the most

terrifying beings on this earth:

a teenager.