I thought the face of Beethoven glaring
between our piano and easy chair
was my father when he was young. Staring
till his eyes dried up, sparking the wild hair
that would soon fly completely off his head,
my father even then was a wizard
of silent menace, a genius of dread.
He saw me. He knew what I did. He heard
the music of my musings. My mother
played Gershwin oblivious to the scorn
singing along would bring down on me. Her
smile froze, her eyes slowly closed, her voice worn
down by years of smoke broke into sobs when
she lost herself in the old melody.
Not me. I sat beside her silently.