Sometimes I close my eyes and pretend,
When the mechanical tinny sounds are an echo of rich lingering tones,
I can pretend the plastic clicking of keys are actually a smooth downward press of ivory,
The key’s bright white reflection dulling to an aged yellow, middle C worn and grayed,
The creaking plastic chair replaced with a sturdy wooden bench,
And I can pretend that I am eight years old again,
Seated in front of my great grandmother’s piano.