A Damaged Piano

The Sinatra grin
of a new baby grand, buffed
with chamois, or kid and a kiss,
the lid a freshly snown-on hillside,
my fingers ski-ing on its gloss,
that's it, and by God,
nothing else.
No cracks, no fissures,
or it's no cigar:
no marathon panting,
no clandestine rubbing
of lacquer on trouser linen.
You wouldn't stick any old tart
in front of James Bond, and say
"What? You like women!"