The silent sonata


In a crowded café near Paddington Green,
she sits segregated; phagocytosed by delirium.

Memories trump reality:
she’s back in the conservatoire.

Finger-taps on sebaceous-smeared Formica,
replace painfully acquired arpeggi on her Steinway keyboard.

From her repertoire, she solos a Liszt sonata
that only she and I hear.




Mark Greener
Painting: Sainz y Saiz



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