There’s a mannequin
at the old piano in the woods between
your house and Jenny Finnegan’s
and it’s warped and ruined
and full of leaves

But the naked
former window model
without any legs to
control the pedals of the
mangled upright:
the soft
the sostenuto
and sustain – all
damper than they should be –
knows no better, you say

You’re wrong, Jenny tells you,
‘Look at her,’ she says,
all freckles and fascination.
’She knows that
broken things can still be beautiful,
she knows it better than most.’

You think about that mannequin
when you can’t sleep that night
mind all abuzz in
Jenny Finnegan’s wake.