The dark wood gleams I see my shadow
And the furniture looks beautiful that way
The keys evoke affection, they let me in
My hands, long and slim touch the ivory
The way kittens do, afraid of their own din
I should be dusting
The vacuum cleaner upstairs sounds like a   mad crowd
Mother too impatient to enjoy the housework game
She’ll be in a bad temper
I should be peeling potatoes
I am alone in this room
Geraniums flower in the window
Outside there are boxes in the palisading
With other flowers,violets,daisies
Noone else has flowers like this in this street
I touch a key tentatively,look at the music
It all comes together like water off a steep hill
Descends into a river
I am playing, at last
I should be carrying in the coal
I should have black hands  like Mother
I play

Sitting at the piano, what reflections
Pull my eyes from looking at the score
As  if  the  unseen critics  were objecting

Noone else is here to be afflicted
I have even closed the open door
Sitting at the piano, now reflecting

I play with both  my hands  consenting
To work together now and furthermore
No  rude critics  made their fine objections

Happiness of children unaccepted
Achievement of this kind is just a bore
I’m sitting at the piano, now reflecting

Life in nuclear families resenting
Attacks by one, malicious in its lore
Imagined critics  made  me feel  dejection

The eyes, the  hands, the mind,  the heart adore
The way the notes  on paper sound, allure.
Sitting at the piano, what reflections
The critics  hear and see with wide attention