I'd just had one of those "can't-be-but-is-it?" moments on seeing a slim passing gentleman disappearing down the hall in what I could have sworn was a Leisure Suit, and so I stood to peek out and gawk til he disappeared through the doors. The silhouette and the gait were so similar to those of a long-ago acquaintance of great musical acumen, but whose talents were spent in various small bars in and around several counties, stirring the smoke and hum of the rooms with old tunes and quite magical classical numbers over the years.
I just sat down and fumbled words into my even-then-geriatric phone---a silly poem---accidentally turning out to be a banal mono-rhyme all the way down, and outlining what I perceived to have been the life of such a quiet, perhaps unfulfilled soul. I gave him a youth from mere imagination, then other happenstance to bring him to what I knew for sure: He lived by his music, by a brandy-snifter paycheck earned in the dim recesses and dull hum of voices and his tunes. I DID know, as well, that his accomplishment at the keyboard earned him Sunday-morning-organist title at the Presbyterian church, and that the whole county gathered for the fabulous majesty of his Christmas and Easter programs.
I wanted to put that great experience into the poem, that thing that none of us could do, that burst of Glory in the music of those special Sundays, but I just left it alone, for I cannot find words to do it justice. I just know that I could live such a small life as his seemed, just for the great joy of the Knowing that I could call forth such Magic with my fingertips. I hope his heart was that full---just for the carrying around of all that Grace and that Cosmic Secret of spilling out the music.
PIANO MAN
Once he played, oh, he played, from the time he was ten,
For his Mama's Card Friends smoking Kents in the den,
They'd ask for "That Rainbow Thing," then, "Play it AGAIN!"
As the maid brought the Bridge Mix and sandwiches in.
He made hardly a ripple in the pond he was in,
Til a DUI got him five months in the Pen.
It took years to get back on the circuit again;
He'd have sold his own soul for a Holiday Inn.
There's been many an evening when no one came in,
And he played through his repertoire, Solo, again;
Til a lady on her fourth martini leaned in,
Leaving "Love That Red" lipstick all over his chin,
And his second-best pants saturated with gin.
Now he sits in the lounge with hair growing thin,
Still taking requests from the folks who walk in,
With his cigarette propped in an old Altoids tin,
He's as famous as he'll ever get, or Has Been.
