Mr. Hayes on Piano
By Latasha Natasha Diggs

he lives in a dark the hue of
stained furniture. the kind of
varnished mahogany
your mother prefer her dresser
drawers      the trim of
her bedroom mirror to be

feeling the color
he meshes it
with the zest of clean grass;
brushing the tint of this
darkness is what he is
tempted by. where he chooses
to find that duet of sorts
in his muse's belly

as if never touched before
in their lives,
raccoon keys
climax before his eyes
glossed with excitement

his elastic fingers
pry apart sounds
splitting notes through
shadows. onlookers
grow aroused
by his cadence

the limbs of a praying mantis
out of their habitat
baked two weeks long
off the coast of St. Martinique…
these are his fingers

the darkness smolders
the man…he plays like
children playing
hop scotch in a
field of sugar cane

he pounds and pauses.
he clunks and scurries across
silence. he scales
the flats and wholes
agile though boyish

hear that tone? like
a crackling of stalk
by small feet…fearless
he don't sense one soul
about him, behind him
in front
he's just playing

Copyright © Latasha Natasha Diggs. All right reserved. Used by permission of the author