They were closing for the day,
the salesgirl said:
off limits, no exceptions, nae chance,
but my man had a Southern drawl,
could talk his way into anything.
She waved us through.
I took a baby grand,
white as a new tooth.
Memorised Chopin poured like milk –
until I tripped,
bucking and cantering to the end.
I never liked that bastard extended trill.
The salesgirl smirked.
My cowboy looked diminished.
I struck the minor third
and snuck off the finish.
All that night
it rained, and I traced my mistakes
up and down his spine –
fourth finger, second finger,
third finger. Trill.