Eight thumbs and 32 fingers on the piano
in their own worlds. They never touch.
They are inventors and teachers
and chaos and desperate to learn
and desperate to unlearn and fireworks.
They are the uneven legs of a caterpillar,
sausages from different packets sizzling
in a nappy white pan. They are spaghetti jazz.
They are now and then. They are soft knuckles,
courageous slugs, a bag of giving it a go.

© Carl Burkitt 2021