The piano did not become easier.

It became stranger.

For years
I thought it
contained eighty-eight keys.

Later
I discovered
it also contained
hesitation,
childhood,
arthritis,
three broken romances,
an argument with Chick Corea,
and whatever it is
that keeps arriving
at two in the morning
asking to be harmonized.
Once I practised scales
to conquer the instrument.

Now
I practise scales
to notice
who is trying
to conquer whom.

Some notes
used to feel correct.

Others incorrect.

Now like people
at a dinner party.

Some belong together.

Some shouldn’t be seated
beside one another.

Occasionally
the worst conversationalist
turns out to save the evening.

I once believed
virtuosity
was the fastest route.

Age suggested
it might instead be
the ability
to leave one key
unplayed.

The instrument
has not changed.

The mathematics
remain obedient
to physics.

The thing
that keeps changing
is the listener
sitting behind.

Every year
I know less
about music.

Every year
the piano
knows more about me.