There's an earlier place I remember very well.  One with stairs.
Music while I drifted up alone
to sleep or look out,
the same while I stumbled back down to the world.
Or, days, my mother dusting, swabbed
and banged the keys--
She otherwise never
got near it.  Never sang.  Maybe the way
she'd sort of moan out the word Oklahoma,
where she'd lived as a girl,
was enough.
It's my father who could go
right through you: Body and Soul, Release Me, Cry Me
a River, big knobby fingers turning
to rain.  To drown those blacks and whites.