The sun sticks to my smile.
Humans on benches open their coats.
Dobermans and dachshunds
wiggle at each other.

A young woman, her face elaborate
with white and black paint,
checkmates an elder man whose sleeping
bag is busy with holes. He fingers pristine
dreadlocks, grins when our eyes meet.

Rachmaninoff flourishes from an ancient
black Steinway well-tuned.
The pianist is tall,
long legs, long arms, long fingers.
He doesn’t have to pound,
amplification brims
from the vim in his hands.

He launches into the second
movement of a Chopin Concerto,
my mother’s favorite piece.
I see her: Roman-nosed, lips pursed, rapt,
her hands plumped with curved nimble
fingers, her body slightly swaying.

I left too soon for her or me,
we both children
who deserved redress.
My backpack sagged,
I stroveto stand erect.

She announced she had dropped
my famed cat Adam–
his penchant for feisty nips,
his ceaseless leaping chair to chair­–
somewhere in a city. With deadly calm
I heard myself say I would send her
no forwarding address.

Over the years she mentored me
through those black and white keys.
Our shoulders touching,
elbows bumping,
a slight mist on her brow.
After an obdurate winter,
the sun on my face.
The grace of us