Untuned You sit unused under the archway between here and there next to the couch, also black. Don’t know why I avoid you so, I love you so and when we’re together we’re harmoniously transformed. Yet, something’s off. It must be the river, its dampness lingers within you sliding along the skin of your tendons, lubricating, loosening ever so slightly, not seen but heard and so offensive should I dare to touch you or move to reanimate a long ignored suite by Bach or Britten opus, a piece of Mahler, or Richard Rodgers. I’m not cheap so what’s the problem? The kit and key you came with sit in the drawer in the kitchen corner. A mitt and cream, so little effort and then you shine beside the matted couch. I make the call and wait until the time arranged and greet the man with tool-filled case to tighten taut your strings in tune for just a couple hundred dollars so I can sit before you turning pages under the archway just us two, next to the couch who now requests a song by Stephen Sondheim.
Photo credit: michelangeloop