PIANO TUNER

In the peaceful surround of the coffee lounge,
Sitting in comfortable chair,
I’m due at the bookshop at half past one,
So there’s more than an hour to spare.

At the end of the lounge, there’s a bookshelf,
Where many red books, on mahogany stand,
Framed pictures of horses, strategically placed,
And a gem studded dagger, from some distant land.

In front of the bookshelf, a beautiful sight,
Many coats of French polish, so shiny & bright,
White ivory keys, that can play a soft tune,
As sweet & romantic, as any full moon.

And there stands the tuner, with spanner in hand,
Carefully nursing piano so grand,
Meticulous, as she checks voltage & sound,
Adjusting a string, if perfection’s not found.

How deeply she concentrates, checking each chord,
I watch for an hour, & never feel bored,
Starting at low note, & works towards high,
Enlisting experience, mind, ear, & eye.

Nothing distracts her, she’s deeply engrossed,
Each string must be perfect, she tries her utmost,
I watch her cool face, almost feel what she’s thinking,
No time for eating, talking or drinking,
Maestro will come soon, with his hands so steady,
Lounge will be full, so all must be ready,
His ear will pick up the most minute defect,
That all those who listen, might never detect,
And after each melody, he’ll take a pause,
At the end he will bow, & accept the applause,
And as they shout “Encore”, & see Maestro smile,
Let us just think of the tuner a while,
She’s very important, but audience won’t see,
Who will sing her praise? Perhaps none; but me.