Runcible Spoon

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The Organist Next Door

 

I don’t complain when he practices.

Not when I wake to his pianissimo,

or shower and shave and breakfast

and dress

to a like-minded crescendo.

His fingers work with my sinews,

clear out my hungover head.

And his accelerando does wonders

for a pulse in need of acceleration.

He sends me out into the world

with enough swelling chords,

sustained tone, harmony and modulations,

to last me through the day,

until I return and,

with the soulful massage

of a well-tempered clavier,

I wind down.

So why should I complain?

Nobody plays me better.