Matt Poindexter

     The Piano Tuner 

He needs a quiet house to do the work, his bag of tools as full of felts and mutes as hammers, levers, metal bits. He roots around inside the busted box. I lurk just out of view, but fear each tuning pin too old and weak, so long ignored. I bought it from a thrift store half-off sale and thought I’d learn to play, but can’t yet, three years in. Is it just junk, not worth the time or cost to tune? Not so, he cranks the pitches flat and sharp. The toughest keys he strikes and speaks to, hushed. I realize I have felt so lost for years. Please, someone, whisper soft like that to me. Please fix this dissonance, these creaks.

Matt Poindexter’s (he/him/his) poems have appeared or are forthcoming in the Best New Poets series, storySouth, Meridian, Greensboro Review, and elsewhere. He previously served as the editor of Inch (Bull City Press). He lives in Hillsborough, North Carolina.