The tuner takes his hammer and thumps
the strings on the piano to get
that empty sound, like a bone
tapped, not quite allowed to vibrate.
I wonder how he knows at all
what to do to make things right,
E followed perfectly by F,
or the half-stepping flats and sharps.
But out comes the long-handled wrench
that makes me think he was a mechanic
once, while he’s talking all the time,
asking how long it’s been since I bothered
to care about a perfect scale, or
if I practiced, instead of pretending
I played, running my fingers along
as I passed by, a failed glissando.
Finally he’s through, sits down, pounds
out a loud but righteous hymn,
then follows it with a bit of Chopin,
pauses, smiles, and offers up Bach,
three minutes so perfect I believe
this is a dream. But he lets me off
with silence so sudden my heart,
the only metronome I have,
catches, knowing this is not a rest
that’s right, as all the sound
worth hearing follows him out
the door, leaving me with sins of omission
and sloth, stacks of music arranged
left and right as though each of those
eight years, paid for, had done their part,
how music, done right, means one cannot be alone.