She rests her finger on a key. G Flat.
Admires the Red No. 1 on her nails,
and then presses the key. Softly.
A single note shivers across the room.
She pauses as if some great thought
passes her mind, but there isn’t one.
And it didn’t. Her thoughts are empty
as air. Heavy as a New York summer,
as this slap-up room with its walls
painted with nicotine condensation.
And she rests her finger on A Flat,
and then presses the key. Softly.
She sighs as if some great amatory
urge passes her mind, but it didn’t.
She presses the keys, randomly.
No tune. No interlude. Just noise.
She sits quietly. Making noise as
he turns the page of The Times.
He can’t read. Can’t think. Noise
is a mind-paint, a mental rattling.
She’s just noise, he thinks. She’s
just a toothache. A fork in the eye.
He feels uniquely single. She feels
the ache of longsighted time.
She rests her finger on a Middle C.
Admires the Red No. 1 on her nails,
and then presses the key. Softly.
About the Poet
Misky lives in the UK surrounded by flowers, grapevines, and the rolling hills of West Sussex. She never buys clothes without pockets. Her poetry is published by Waterways: Ten Penny Players, Right Hand Pointing, and Visual Verse.
For the first time in nearly five years, Vita Brevis is closed for submission. Read the full story here.
Vita Brevis Press. 