The Pianist

The sky outside is impossibly grey,
but the keys, white and black
sing to me in a orange tonality.
I sing through the haze of my smoking cigarette
'bout the streets of New York.
Though I've never been there,
I saw a news flash;
It was raining there too.
The millions in the city sit in my shoes...

I've dreamt New York in my head
while singing in the city of angels,
watching pipe dreams float
outside the window,
hanging like cotton above the 101.

The people dance and throw up a cheer on Ventura Blvd
as I tip my hat and the waiter who serves another Jack.

We're all energy and so my notes dance just like me
as a girl serenades whimsically across my living room.

The world is a beautiful and dreamy place
on a rainy Sunday when set to music...

I ring on the keys as the mallets hit the strings:
A girl in New York sheds a tear-
the rain from the beautiful seranade
forming itself inside her head.
She knows in those rainy streets,
the musical that rewinds
in her fragile little daydream-
she is full of love,

From the city of Angels
to New York, to the city of Angels again,
music is the universal language...

And the rain stops.
I take a bow:

thunderous

cheer from the sky
...for her city no longer weeps.