An Eighth Wonder
Poem By Sylvia Kleinman
Touched today and every morrow
a bringer of joy and sorrow
Eighty-eight keys have I, not to dangle from a chain
but to accompany an old and new refrain. Man's ten fingers on my keyboard placed
approach softly, often ascending
to a feverish pace, emitting a tremble, perhaps. Privacy invaded by dancing digits
playing around with my treasured bastion of
warmth; hammers of felt, wrapped. Again and again ten little piggies
strike at my very core,
Icy strings of steel, melt magically by tools, pounding.
'Neath me, poised, peds await the command
to join the goings-on at hand. No mortal am I yet yearn to sing!
Alas! Dependence on humankind is much
Alone stand I, impotent. L'chaim--to life.