To Miss Liz

I want to let you know that it’s your fault

that I never paid attention to your piano lessons.

You hushed the boy’s words and never heard his dream.

‘Learn your key movements’, ‘raise your palms silly boy’,

‘practice the piece on page 76 till you can play it without looking.’

Boring boring boring.

 

I wanted to play something groovy, not to join a bleeding orchestra,

What did I care about long tuneless pieces written by deaf people?

I wanted to learn music, and you taught me foreign languages,

Adagio, Andante, fortissimo, legato, yourstupidheado.

Funny shaped symbols that were neither hieroglyphics nor ancient Aramaic

And maths! in the middle of a freaking bar, three-fourths, four-eights equals noise.

 

I told you over and over again, all I wanted was to play the riff

of that Chuck Berry number.

I wanted to play the synthesizer like Duran Duran and Depeche Mode.

I wanted Billy Joel, and Elton John,

And the songs from Grease,

And oh Miss Liz, I wanted to bang the keys and step on the pedals any time I damn wanted to.

 

Now look at me.

I could have been Chris Martin playing the opening riff to Clocks.

Instead I’m just boring suited, bespectacled man chewing legal jargon

in a musicless world he doesn’t belong in;

Feigning to be oh so professional,

While all the time imagining in my head what a great star I would have been,

Ladies and Gentlemen, the Grammy goes to…

 

You have no idea the damage you’ve done.

I thought you should know.