The Accompanist
I've always worried about you
the man or woman at the piano
bench,
night after night receiving only
such applause as the singer allows:
a warm hand please, for my accompanist.
At concerts, as I watch your fingers
on the keys, and how swiftly, how excellently
you turn sheet music pages, track
the singer's notes, cover the singer's
flaws, I worry about whole lifetimes,
most lifetimes lived in the shadows of reflected
flame, but then the singer's voice dies and there
are just your last piano notes, not resentful
at all, carrying us to the end, into those heartfelt
cheers that spring up in little patches from a thrilled
audience like sudden wildflowers bobbing in a rain
of steady clapping. And I'm on my feet, also,
clapping and cheering for the singer, yes, but I think
partially likewise for you half-turned toward us,
balanced on your black bench, modest, utterly
well-rehearsed, still playing the part you've made yours.
