your hands, white keys, oh sell me melodies
demanding strict time, tempo.
preach in chromatics, steps and instructions,
directives in a crowd of atonal amorality.
how can i atone for my sins,
for my wanton abuse of the rules?
i am an ejection of the rudest sort, under your fingers,
which otherwise dance lightly up the board.
something you couldn't direct:
desire for minority, for difference, for distance.
sell me rhythm and pace, gift me
trials of methodical plodding to keep me on track.
on the tip-end of the metronome i sway,
waiting for easement, avoiding complexity.