The Organist Next Door
I don’t complain when he practices.
Not when I wake to his pianissimo,
or shower and shave and breakfast
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.