Miss Reese

The room holds two pianos:
both baby grands.
I come here every Tuesday night
at seven. Although

I’m not supposed to,
I always take the short-cut
down the alley toward
Hubbard Park. I carry

my sheet music
and my dollar & a quarter,
let myself in, sit down
on a dingy-grey upholstered chair

in the living room.
Another student plays
ahead of me.
I wait my turn.

I sense movement
behind the dusty drapes that
separate this room from the parlor.
It’s the old woman, I’m sure:

Miss Reese’s ancient mother.
Hidden away like a bad report card.
Without smiling, Miss Reese dismisses
her other student and invites me

into the music room.
She dresses completely in black:
black dress, black stockings,
black old lady shoes. Her grey

hair pulls into a tight bun.
Her complexion is grey.
She wears no makeup,
but wears grey, pearl earrings.

She instructs me to play the piece
I practiced all week.
She sits to my right as I labor
over Bach’s Prelude Number 1 in C Major

from the Well Tempered Clavier.
Her lips purse in and out,
out and in,
like a metronome keeping time.

When I have finished playing,
she leaves the room without a word.
It takes her only a moment
to place the record on the turntable.

She reenters the room and instructs me to
“Listen to Prelude Number 1 in C Major as it
ought to be played. As Bach,
himself, might have played it.”

The ancient woman,
hiding behind the curtain,
listens, too.