I tap the yellowed piano key with a bony index finger,
a C major that stirs the marble-top bureau,
family pictures, wine glasses in the oak cabinet.
A French tapestry captures the one-note melody,
an orphan tone already dying.
I examine the faded oriental rug,
a thousand silent notes woven into fractals,
indigo snowflakes from an opium dream.
I hit the C again, the wire an old man’s vocal cord.
It is a feeble “yes” in a quiet room,
a museum where even the sunrise has been archived.
I glance at my body in the armchair
by the open window, summer breeze blowing
a white lace shroud over my face.
A heart attack, I think.