Life Lessons

 

In high school I switched to Sue’s piano teacher, Miss Ward.

She took the El and a taxi to our houses, luckily

only two blocks from each other. Then she took a taxi

and the El back home. Even then I knew it was an unmerciful life.

Possibly our pieces, our Chopin and Bach and Debussy,

showed we were advanced students, but not

if you listened to us. And Miss Ward had to listen.

It was her job. My father had to mend and stitch clothes,

line seams up just so, add pockets and collars and pleats.

A tailor was steps up from a horse trader, his father’s work.

I didn’t bother with the niceities of music, eschewing

counting, rhythm, legatos, staccatos. To me

mere possibilities, whether to consider or not

at my discretion. My mother said, I don’ know

how she makes any money at all, with the taxis and the El.

I felt bad then, not for my indifferent playing–

I thought I passed the bar, but just by a hair–

but for a hardscrabble life, the endless rounds,

a tiny elderly woman wearing nylons and sensible stout shoes.