can play the piano
but Dave can only play the radioó
the little joke my uncle Jim told
as he kneaded the bag of oleo
its red button of dye
turned that white glue buttery yellow.
On the radio, Chopin, Vegas-style,
made him dance as he squeezed. Now
as old and tired as his joke.
His aged piano sits silent, played
only by the dust that falls on it,
and the radio he canít hear blares static.
butters his toast with Promise.
All day it melts on its chipped plate.