My uncle died, was on holiday in Piraeus,
a pig fell off a balcony.
He left a piano and since his wife didn’t
want it in her house, mother took it,
only because it would lend an impression
of high culture,
no one else in our neighbourhood had one.
I played on it day and night,
picked up tunes on radio and played
them on the piano;
people were impressed, mother too,
but she needed her rest, worked long hours
at a fish canning factory.
One day, coming home from school,
a big empty space,
I cried, mother gave me Danish pastry,
it was a day old but still tasty.
I’m glad she sold the piano, though I might
have ended up as a restaurant pianist
driving from town to town playing evergreens
as background music for bored diners;
a bitter pianist who dreams of
becoming a car mechanic.
