The bench groans and squeaks as I take a seat; feet dangle high off ground

Squirming and shuffling, trying hard not to move around

Black soldiers sit alined with white each in there own place;

Each perfectly fit

Patient and waiting--waiting for the caress of an old friend's fingertips    

Instead of a loving touch, a balled fist rattles the keys 

Hours of Practice

And Repeat

Hours fade to days

Days to years

And years that drift away...

Drifting until--

The bench groans and squeaks as I take a seat; feet firmly planted on the ground

Clever fingers embrace the notes, comforted by the familiarity:

The Soldiers,

The Friend,

And in the end, the bliss music offers 

To what the eyes can't see

A thoughtful pause;

A caress of the keys

Hours of Bliss

And Repeat