Her blue veins ran

beneath dry, translucent flesh

that was dappled with brown spots

like spattered coffee.

Wrinkles disappeared

as she stretched her left thumb

and little finger to play

an octave bass chord;

A bridge from C to C.

The etudes were no longer

of interest to most, except perhaps

the ghosts of Liszt and Chopin;

And of course there was Ming,

her beige, almond-eyed Siamese,

poised on the fallboard,

his brown-tipped paw

gently toying with the gnarled hand

as it walked systematically

up the bass clef like a large spider.