ephemeron

you enter a small, locked room. there are no windows and

the air lacks imagination.  you place scores--bach, beethoven, rachmaninov--

on the music stand and sit carefully upon the black leather bench 

(an artist's bench).

                      artist:  seek their inspirations--bach, beethoven, rachmaninov--

in this uninspiring room.  your work is placing your fingers upon the keys

day after day after day:

excite the current

wash and wring the unimaginative air within the whorl of your ear

(frustrate your already frustated mind, gauging weight and pacing lines),

work for weeks to sift through the alluvium of sound

and pan for sparkling, golden tones.

in the end, present the glorious work, but realize this:

only the clearest-eared will hear and shrewdly explain while the hungry rest

make you a god-for-five-minutes and clamor maddeningly to bask and congratulate.  

bear the moment while you can and then return to a small, locked, windowless room.  your

work is placing your fingers upon the keys day after day after day.

it will be cold there, too separate from whatever sun warms the world outside

that heavy, lonely door.